Shadow of the Wolf
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: Set early in Season 3. AU. Enterprise is searching for the Xindi, and the desperate hunt for clues takes her to an abandoned mine on a wandering planetoid. Those who worked there are long gone, but there is more waiting there than the remnants of the trellium ore...
1. Chapter 1: Jessa

**Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.**

 **This story has been beta-read by VesperRegina, to whom I owe even more thanks than usual. It's dedicated to Shi Shi, for her friendship and encouragement, and for making me laugh when I most needed it.  
**

 **Bernhard Muller and Em Gomez used by kind permission of Volley and Chrysa respectively.**

 **This story is AU. Warning: it contains bad language and some moderately graphic violence. Anyone who is offended by these should consider this before reading it.  
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More than anything, it was the eyes that made them afraid.

It was a day like any other, out on the High Plains; a day with the hint of autumn in it, a coolness that came as a relief after the long, baking summer. But this was not to be a day like any other. Such days as these the gods should announce, but that day the gods were silent; unless a god spoke in the faint, falling notes of a skylark far up in the sky, so high that even when I stopped and looked upwards, shading my eyes against the glare, I could not make out the shape of the bird as it soared.

Legend says that skylarks are sacred, the birds that rise to the home of the gods, and certainly it is widely held to be unlucky to kill them, even by accident. Not that I would kill one, even if I could. I have always loved to hear them. They are such dull creatures on the ground – in the summer months they remain on their nests among the grass, hiding their chicks, until one may almost step on them – that it never ceases to be a source of wonder that something so plain and dowdy may hold within it such a torrent of song…

The tents were deserted, save for the usual scatter of noisy children and one or two of the older members of the tribe who had chosen to follow their pursuits outside in the sunshine. Most of the women were in the _kiwa-we_ , the House of Making, for we are a sociable people, and there is always pleasure to be had in the company of others while we work.

Well. In the company of _some_ others, for unluckily there are always those who find their particular pleasure in tormenting those less fortunate than themselves.

The skylark fell silent, and although I waited a while, it did not sing again. In a little while I saw the dark arrowhead of a falcon cut the sky, and thought that the skylark was wise to be silent; the small sleek hunter will strike a bird almost as big as itself from the air.

I looked around for Bihiv, for my brother loved to watch a falcon playing with the wind; though it is not a thing a man would discuss with a woman (even a beloved sister), it was not hard to guess that he hoped with all his heart that when his time came to receive his tribe-mark, he would wake from Trance to find the Sickle on his shoulder. Nevertheless, I knew the looking for the foolishness it was. I would not find him. He was away with the rest of the men, hunting, and we did not look to see them again till the following day. I watched the falcon as it swooped away towards the westering sun, and hoped that its flight would take it above the hunters and that Bihiv would look up and catch a sight of it, and take it for a lucky omen.

As the falcon disappeared into the blue, I caught the sound of hoofs. Even that first breath of sound told me that the horse was being ridden hard, with a speed that was careless of cracks in the hard-packed ground.

Foreboding caught me by the throat. Would that I could write honestly that I had some foreshadowing of what was to come; but alas, I am no more than an ordinary woman, and had no thought that it was more than news of some accident to one of the hunting party – to which I would naturally be summoned.

It has given me a status of sorts to be the Healer for the tribe. A status that otherwise I would lack, given the colour of my eyes: brown like the earth, rather than brilliantly blue like the sky.

But with this status has come responsibility given to few other women. When there are injuries or sickness, it is I who am expected to treat and heal. Success is expected: failure is shocking. It is especially true when it is the young and strong who are involved. The tribe is not so great in number that we can afford to lose any of our young people.

So I stared out across the expanse of parched grass, shading my eyes once again. A lone rider, on a tired horse. After a moment I made out the familiar form of Atreh, crouched alongside his beast's neck to urge it to greater speed, and my already fast pulse quickened. He was easily the best rider among the young men, and valued his mount, but both of them were risking death with that mad gallop.

Others had heard him. Old Garv the Horsemaster was already hobbling out to the herd, whistling them to come to him. Ever watchful for danger, Syach the red stallion began circling his mares, blowing down his imperious nose, but Garv had brought him into the world and was trusted. Mere moments passed before the man emerged from the press of warm bodies, leading my sweet little dun Arach towards the heap of horse-blankets and tack; he already knew that I would need her.

He had Arach blanketed and bitted almost before Atreh pulled his lathered horse Vey to a plunging stop beside me.

There was no explanation; words would have used up precious time; help was clearly needed, help was my duty, and the case must be truly desperate for a young man who was generally gentle enough with beasts to have used his own in such a way.

Vey was spent, and could not be ridden on the return journey. Atreh cast an eye on the line where the remaining riding horses were picketed, and while he was hastily choosing one I ducked back into my tent and pulled out the doeskin bag in which I kept the things that were generally needful for emergencies. I also exchanged my skirt for a riding dress, silently thanking my father for having seen the need for his daughter to learn to ride at least as well as a man, however unfeminine it may still be thought.

 _Not Bihiv_ , my heart was silently pleading; _let it not be Bihiv lying injured. Perhaps dying – perhaps already dead…._

But whoever it might be, they were in urgent need of my care. Perhaps Atreh would tell me as we rode. He was one of those who seemed not to care overmuch for the stigma of brown eyes, and was friendly enough with Bihiv. He was not unkind towards me, either, and there had been times when I entertained foolish daydreams, but those days were past. I was content enough with things as they were.

Atreh was already up on his remount and holding Arach's rein by the time I emerged, the bag slung across my shoulders. His handsome young face was filthy with dust and sweat, and wore a look of suppressed impatience, but he said nothing as I put my hands on her withers and vaulted up on to her back. Garv was leading away the exhausted Vey, and scowling over the ribbons of sweat that streaked the strong neck and flanks.

I did not want to see such marks on Arach's satiny hide, but the life of a man and of a horse are of different values.

Still, all the best horses were out on the hunt. Those remaining in the picket line belonged to the old men who no longer had the sheer physical endurance for long days on horseback with all the associated discomforts of scarce water, dried food and hard lying at night, and they too had seen better days. In a straight race Arach would have burst her willing heart trying to keep up with Vey, but press as he undoubtedly would, Atreh would get nothing like Vey's speed from the horse he bestrode now.

Without looking to see I was ready, he urged his borrowed mount fiercely forward. They were galloping almost before they were past the last of the tents, where a couple of children and another of the old men stood to watch us go, doubtless wondering what the news would be when the hunting party returned. Three of the tribe died when the marsh fever came in the spring, for all that I could do; and somehow the eleven whom I saved seemed to be of less account, in the eyes of some, than the three I could not.

The priests say that every man dies at his appointed time. It had been with me ever since that some, particularly among the women, whisper that for those three their time might have been further distant had it been other than I who attended them….

I urged Arach after him, and she responded eagerly. It has ever felt to me that this must be how it feels to a falcon, feeling the wind rush past; though I could never before remember driving her so hard, and in my heart I whispered a prayer to the Mother of Mares to direct her feet surely, for neither she nor I had time to check or turn aside if some hidden danger lay in wait.

Our menfolk have an unerring sense of direction, even when clouds hide the sun and the plain stretches featureless from horizon to horizon. Atreh rode without hesitation back the way he had come, Arach obedient behind him, stretching her neck to keep up.

Ai! It was a long way, and a cruel distance to keep horses at the full stretch. For all her willing heart, Arach was no Vey, no Syach. Presently I heard the note of her lungs grow laboured, and stroked her wet neck to give her all the comfort I could; but I could not let her rest, and as the ride went on and on it came to me bleakly that I might well be riding her to her death.

Presently the broken landscape yielded up the shape of a low, stony hill, forerunner of the mountains that heaved up their heads against the horizon further north, and at sight of it I had to fight against the urge to pull on Arach's rein. This was a place I never came to willingly, any more than the men did. Senseless and maybe blasphemous as it is, I have always felt that this place and those who dwell here are in direct opposition to everything I stand for.

And yet, they have their place in the life of the Tribe, even as I do. I yield them the due respect, as they do me, but on both sides it is a guarded truce even now.

My mind was full of questions as Atreh pushed his also labouring horse towards the cliff where the cave mouth lies. As we drew closer I saw the horses of the hunting party gathered there, and with a small rush of relief I saw Bihiv's sorrel Kav among the others, seemingly uninjured.

The men were gathered as close to the cave mouth as awe would let them, and heads turned as Atreh and I rode up. Normally they would have come to take the horses and help us down, but nobody moved; some great emotion had them in its grip, for I saw their faces were pale and set.

 _Not Bihiv, O Great Mother, let it not be Bihiv…_

Arach stumbled to a halt, her breathing like a pair of bellows, and I did not even take the time to pat her in sorrow and gratitude as I slid down off her back in a rush. "Who is it? What has happened?"

The crowd parted to let me through, but no-one answered. On legs that were suddenly so shaky they seemed hardly able to bear me, I hurried through the gap towards those who were waiting silently in the very mouth of the Cave itself.

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	2. Chapter 2: Jessa

It was not Bihiv.

That much I gathered in the first glance, though the same emotion that gripped those around me seized me too, as soon as I saw what was to be seen.

A stranger, motionless on the ground. The stillness of his limbs and of the ivory face under its thatch of black hair made me think at first glance that he was dead, but moments later I saw the rise and fall of his chest. There was scarlet among the black; a trail of it led back into the cave, from which he had been dragged by those more furious at the impiety of his presence than afraid of laying hands on him. A head wound, then, and maybe not the only injury. It explained his unconsciousness, at least. A slow anger lit in me, that he had been moved before I could examine him, and by those who would not have thought first that a careless movement could bring death that might otherwise have been avoided.

So far, nothing of great wonder, save for the fact that none among us had ever seen him before, and no horse explained his presence here. No horse ever foaled, however, could have accounted for the clothes he was wearing. A strange blue garment, made all in one piece as far as I could tell, without decoration save for a single line of dark red about the shoulders and two small, polished, oblong pieces of metal set closely within the corner of it on his right breast. Moreover, he had no beard, which made him appear younger than the lines of his face suggested.

I stepped close to him and crouched down. Whoever he was, wherever he had come from, he was injured, and that made him my responsibility. I heard a small stir in the crowd behind me, quickly stilled, and knew that it had been Bihiv's instinctive movement of protest that I should be so exposed to an unknown danger; still, I was only a woman, and a woman with brown eyes at that. Most tribes have more than one Healer and will give one if the need is there; no tribe worth the word will give away one of its young men. I knew without resentment – even with gratitude – that my brother had been restrained from coming to be my protection, lest the danger spread to him as well.

There were two pairs of feet in my peripheral vision. One, of course, belonged to Roish, who as the Lady of the Cave would have been the one who ordered him dragged forth. I felt, rather than saw, the icy stare with which she fixed him. If he died, there might yet be words between Roish and me over that matter, though I well knew she would fix the blame on my incompetence as a Healer (she having been one of the most vocal over those three deaths earlier in the year; though as one of the dead had been her eldest son, that was maybe not to be wondered at).

The other belonged to Briai, who as the head of the tribe was concerned in all decisions regarding it. Framed in its grizzled, grey-flecked hair, his face was chiefly thoughtful. He rarely spoke or acted in haste, though when he did either men did not question. I knew that his first concern would be what danger this stranger might pose, even to me. At a guess, the long spear whose butt was resting in the ground beside him would come into action briskly enough if I should be threatened, for after all I belong to the tribe and I have my uses.

Well. I would achieve nothing just kneeling here and staring. However my heart pattered in my breast, I would have to ignore it and think of this man as simply another patient.

Fever. Nobody had told me how long he might have been in the Cave; he might have been in there for days, ill and unattended. I touched my fingertips lightly to his forehead.

He reacted instantly, so that I snatched my hand away; but it was only a reflex, such as an uneasy sleeper might show. His lips moved, but made no sound. And then his eyes opened, blurred and without focus.

 _That_ was when I knew why everyone was so afraid.

 _Grey!_

Despite myself I almost backed away. Automatically I glanced up at the sky. Most of it was still blue, deepening towards evening, but towards the north there were one or two rags of darkly ominous cloud that seemed likely to be torn-off heralds of a storm.

Was this a coincidence?

I looked back at him. His eyes had shut again, hiding that eerie colour. A frown line sank between his brows and he seemed to whisper something, though even bending close I could not catch the words.

It was at that point that I noticed another strangeness. The People have _qeh_ … markings on our bodies, chiefly on our cheekbones and our flanks. We are born with them. This man's face showed no sign whatsoever of any shadowy dappling – a lack that was extremely unusual, though not unheard-of.

Even that one quick touch had been enough to tell me he was feverish. I had medicines that could treat him, but had brought none of them with me. Emergency treatments seldom call for such things.

I looked up at Briai. "He is ill. I will need to bring him back to the village."

There was a stir and murmuring at that; the men did not lack courage in ordinary situations, but there were women and children to think of, and who knew what danger bringing this mysterious stranger among them might cause? I heard it, and understood their fears, but I did not take my eyes from his bright, considering gaze. When one becomes a Healer, one does not differentiate between those worthy of saving and those not.

Briai, on the other hand, bore the weight of responsibility for all, and I had to find an argument that would weigh with him. "If he dies for want of care, his spirit may haunt the village," I pointed out. The People honour their dead, and accord them due reverence so that their spirits pass peacefully to the Eternal Grazing Lands. It would not be a good thing to have an angry spirit trapped among the tents.

"If he dies for _ill_ care, it is just as likely." Roish, of course, neatly turning that argument on its head. "Safest to take him out into the Plain and let him take his chances. His own will find him and care for him, whoever they are. Then his death will not be on our heads."

"His death may already be on someone's head – that _someone_ who ordered him moved without care," I retorted. (I have always spoken without heed when a patient's welfare was concerned, and not always wisely, all things considered; Roish was not one of whom to make an enemy lightly.)

Briai coughed behind his moustaches. "Jessa, your care for the wounded always does you credit. Nevertheless, insult to the gods puts the whole tribe in danger. Roish did no more than she felt she ought."

I closed my lips on the too-swift answer that I had yet to learn that a lack of compassion found favour with any god. I respected Briai, and would not argue with him before the hunters. Still, a glance at Roish told me that my suggestion had hit home. For all that she had undoubtedly acted in holy outrage at the presence of a stranger in the Sacred Cave, she certainly would not want an angry spirit blaming her for his death.

"I am sure she did," I said, making my voice as conciliatory as I could for my indignation. "But the fact remains that she may have worsened his injuries. If he does not die when we take him out and leave him, and his people find him and learn of it, they may seek revenge on his behalf."

 _And who knows who they are, and how numerous they may be?_

I left the question to echo.

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	3. Chapter 3: Jessa

There are many tribes on the Plains. The land is so vast that there is enough room for all, and the Laws provide a framework so that the occasional encounter shall pass off peacefully. Nevertheless, rumours travel like the God's Horse across the land, and every now and then during the past years chance travellers had spoken of a distant land where the Laws do not run, and where a mighty people in the South whose language is different to ours cast covetous eyes on the grazing lands and herds further north.

Briai and his fellow Horse Lords were aware of these rumours. Of late, on each time that tribes had met there were discussions among all the Wise, and afterwards gallopers were sent to and fro bearing the fruits of their counsel to the Lords of further-flung clans, and asking for their thoughts in return. Naturally Briai would not share these subjects with women, but he was doubtless aware that his elders shared the beds of womenfolk. At any rate, then as now, much that is officially secret is, in fact, quite common knowledge. (I have often thought it not coincidental that Briai never enters the _kiwa-we_ without coughing loudly beforehand.)

So the existence of this powerful and far-distant tribe was not a secret. Nevertheless, all accounts agreed that the distance was so great that even should their covetousness grow so vast that they decided to reach out in force to take what they coveted, there would be time for the Plains Tribes to muster and meet them in strength. To this end, certain villages scattered around the likeliest routes of march were kept well supplied with food and good horses, to ensure that word of any such march reached us as soon as might be. At a guess, such an advance would be like the flooding of a river: even innocent folk in its path would be swept away. The small service of passing on news would be a certain way of ensuring shelter for those who would otherwise find themselves homeless and friendless.

Rumour, however, had not been talkative as to what these people looked like, how they spoke and dressed and rode. We did not even have a name for them: we called them simply The Others. This might be one of them. Certainly his look was strange enough.

The idea brought as much doubt and fear as excitement. He might be an outrider, sent to scout out our numbers and locations. One or two scouts may pass unremarked where numbers would attract attention, and no lord who planned a military expedition would do so without gathering as much information as might be about the whereabouts and strength of his enemies.

The low growl that passed among the hunters told me that I was not the only one to have had this thought. If this was indeed a spy of The Others, his life would be short.

"We must keep him alive," I insisted. I was no keener on spies than any of the rest of the tribe, but I went on to point out boldly that if we were to find out who he was, and (most importantly of all) what he was doing here, then a dead body would tell us nothing.

Also – and I make no apology for the idea, though I certainly did not voice it – it occurred to me that if The Others truly were coming, and things went ill with us, our having shown kindness to their injured scout might stand us in good stead. At a guess, it was not a thought likely to have occurred to Briai, who would have died naked and weaponless sooner than buy mercy in such a way. But after the fighting is over, those who remain must buy what they can with what they have; and always it is the women who remain…

But I recall now little of calculation in my thought. Simply enough, he was injured and I was a Healer. All else was of secondary importance.

Save for the thought of what information could be got from him, I believe the stranger would have died where he lay. However, information was precious in a world where we had so little of it, and it was clear that Briai thought the risk worth the taking.

With the hope of having meat to bring home, carrying-poles were slung on several of the horses, and hides to strap across them for support. The good sense of taking a captive alive was plain to everyone, and there were no voices raised in dissent as our Tribe Lord ordered the construction of a drag.

It was a task that everyone was well accustomed to, and mere moments passed before we were ready to load the stranger onto it.

At that point, I hesitated.

It was not that I had second thoughts; whoever he was, I wished to save his life. But the fact remained that now I could easily do what I had accused Roish of maybe doing – bring about his death through careless handling.

I did not know about the bodies of The Others. I did not know in what ways, if any, they differed from us. At first glance, this man did not look so very different, though he was small-boned and slight; but if he was indeed one of The Others, who knew if I would be able to detect an injury that could be fatal if he was moved in the wrong way?

I had no choice. Later, if he survived the journey, I would have leisure to examine him more closely. For now, a simple check for broken bones would have to serve.

Drawing a deep breath, I began methodically feeling at his bones, starting with one of his feet. They were clad in some strange, heavy boot, amazingly thick and strong, but that did not prevent me from rotating the foot very gently, listening with held breath for the grate of broken bone or a hitch in the breathing that would betoken pain.

None came. I worked my way carefully up one leg and then the other, and from thence around his pelvis and rib-cage, noting that he was wiry and muscular, without an ounce of surplus fat on his body. His arms too seemed unbroken; I noticed as I checked his fingers that the nails on them were pared short and astonishingly clean.

His head was definitely not undamaged. I cleaned away the blood with a cloth and felt around his skull with the greatest care. It had sustained a blow – there was a lump on the left side of his head, just behind his ear, and the scalp there had parted, which was where the blood had come from – but as far as I could tell without undressing him, that was his only injury, and I thought the bone beneath was unbroken. That did not mean he was not seriously hurt; a hard enough blow can cause a man's death days later, even if the skull itself remains whole; but it lent me hope that he might live.

He was still unconscious as I began cautiously feeling his abdomen. There seemed to be nothing amiss, as far as I could tell. Though as he was lying face-upward, I could not examine what had the potential to be the worst injury site of all – his spine.

The hunters had waited patiently while I worked, crowding closer to watch. Bihiv was now allowed to crouch beside me, and I was glad of his nearness, though I had no concentration to spare.

"I think we can move him," I said at last, sitting back on my heels. "But let us put him on a hide first, and not bend him more than we must till I know there is no injury to his spine."

A second hide was brought, and put on the ground beside him. Under my direction the stranger was lifted, gently and carefully enough with many hands to help, and the hide slid underneath to allow him to be lowered on to it.

I supported his head. It felt heavy in my hands. He did not wake, though frown lines dipped in his forehead and his lips moved as though he might speak, so that we all held our breath for a moment, thinking he was not as deeply asleep as we had thought.

"May we not live to regret this," said Roish beneath her breath, when at last the second hide with its sleeping passenger was bound safely between the two drag poles.

I would have answered that I could never regret trying to save a life, but the cold thought came to me that this might indeed be one of The Others who was about to be shown our camp, and that if things fell out ill because of it, many might regret my impulsive kindness. But I comforted myself as best I could that Briai would not be swayed by any foolish impulse, and it was his word that had saved the stranger – at least for now.

"If we are able to learn from him about The Others, it may be of great service to the whole People," my brother answered her peaceably. (Unlike me, he rarely responds to provocation.) "And if he is not one of Them, but simply a chance traveller, then do not the gods' laws teach the virtue of hospitality?"

Her mouth folded in disapprovingly. After all, it was not the part of a youth who had barely reached the year of his Proving to remind the Lady of the gods' laws. But he spoke only the truth, which she could not well dispute, and so she merely sniffed, as one who suspends judgement, awaiting events.

"Take them back to the village," Briai ordered Atreh. "He is to be treated fairly until we know who and what he is. Question him if he recovers and you judge him fit to speak. But in any case, see that he is guarded, day and night, till we return. If needs be, have him bound. I make him your responsibility."

It made sense, of course; the tribe still had to eat, and it seemed that the hunt had not yet found quarry. Both Atreh and I had to return to the camp at the slowest of walking paces, and only riding for part of the way to give our exhausted horses time to recover as best they might. It was still not clear whether poor Arach would survive the treatment I had handed out to her.

I had time, now, to seek her out. Shonn, Garv's able pupil and appointed successor, had thrown spare blankets over both horses so that they would not chill too quickly, but both were standing with heads held low, plainly exhausted. I would have liked to have let them rest for at least a few hours before asking more of them, but I dared not; the stranger's fever might rise, and I would be in a far stronger position to save him if I could reach my store of medicines. Not to mention that there would be little enough comfort for any of us over the long, slow journey to come, and the sooner it was over the sooner they could be handed over into Garv's knowledgeable hands.

"I am sorry, sweet one," I said, as Arach lifted her delicate head to lip at my hand, hoping for a treat. "We will go slowly, I swear."

There was no option. Not only were we on weary horses, but the one that had been loaned to us must be led carefully if the points of the drag poles were not to bounce on the rough ground, jolting the injured man bound between them.

The hunters mounted and rode off, not without many a backward glance. Bihiv rode with his chin on his shoulder, doubtless wondering if he would see me again.

Atreh sighed. He knew as well as I did that the return journey, made at the snail's pace it would have to be, would take more than a day. And the responsibility on his young shoulders was doubtless a heavy burden. "Well, the distance will grow no less for being stared at. Are you ready, Jessa?"

"As ready as may be." I took hold of Arach's reins, while he took those of his own horse and those of the dragger in his other hand. I would walk a little to the rear, so that I could keep watch over my patient.

And so we began to walk.

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	4. Chapter 4: Archer

"Malcolm! _Malcolm!"_

"Trip, no!" I seized my chief engineer's ankle, trying to drag him back. "It won't do any good if we lose you as well!"

Trip hung over the edge of the precipice, almost sobbing. His stare downwards was one of blank horror, and only the mocking echo of _'com…com…com…'_ answered his frantic shout. His automatic kick to free his leg sent my heart into my mouth in case the movement dislodged the crack-riven rock he was lying on in front of me, but it seemed to hold. And starting a struggle right now could be the worst thing for either of us.

Instead I looked over my shoulder at my XO, who'd been in the rear of the party beside Major Hayes, and who like him was standing completely still, obviously unwilling to move in case they destabilized the rock any further and increased the grave danger the two of us in front of them were in. "What the hell happened?" I demanded.

"The anomaly destabilized the mine." There was so little inflection in T'Pol's voice that for a moment I felt a resurgence of the almost visceral dislike I'd felt for her at the start of the voyage. "The mining operations have made the area extremely unstable to begin with, which is doubtless why it was abandoned even though some trellium deposits still remain here. Presumably the risk was felt too great to continue."

I stared in despair at the narrow mouth of darkness that the sudden convulsion in the planetoid had opened up in the floor of the mine, and into which Trip was desperately peering as he lay on the ground in front of it. With unsparing clarity my mind replayed the picture of Malcom Reed finding the rock beneath him crumbling away, and the look of stunned horror on his face as he fell with it.

There might have been a scream, but it would have been swallowed up in the rending and shaking of the walls around us and the ground underfoot. By the time all that monstrous disturbance had quieted, there was nothing to be seen or heard. Only Trip, lunging forward with his usual impulsiveness, risking his own neck as well on that lip of broken rock that could so easily give way and take him to follow Malcolm.

The discovery of a small, wandering planetoid with the remains of a Xindi mining facility on it had seemed like a godsend, particularly when it was found to still have a shallow, breathable atmosphere. Our search had gone on for so long with so little result, I'd seized on the chance to find something, _anything_ , about the mysterious species who'd unleashed hell on an unsuspecting Earth. The facility might have contact information, might have databases, and might even have co-ordinates for their home world!

But for all our hungry examination of everything in the old, rather ramshackle buildings above on the planet's surface, the facility had yielded nothing. The remaining electronics hadn't been proof against Trip's skill to bring them back to life, with the aid of one of the spare power packs we'd brought with us, but whoever had decommissioned the place had done their job too well. Anything that could yield information had either been destroyed or removed. What remained was just junk, of so little value it hadn't even been worth the bother of carting away.

Smarting with disappointment and frustration, I'd seized on T'Pol's discovery of what looked like a small equipment store at a lower level. My previous adventures in a trellium mine hadn't filled me with the desire to experience one at close quarters ever again, but if that was what it took, that was what I'd do.

Unfortunately, the lighting in the mine wasn't functioning for some reason, but we'd brought powerful flashlights down from the ship. After informing _Enterprise_ of what we planned to do, and arranging a check-in time that should give the party plenty of time to explore what was a fairly small mine (nothing like the size of the last one), I'd led the way into the tunnels. Given that trellium was toxic to Vulcans, T'Pol was wearing a full EV suit, but everyone else was just wearing breathing masks to protect them from the worst of the blue dust our footfalls kicked up – residue, no doubt, of the former mining operations here.

Or at least, I'd started off leading the way. Until Malcolm pointed out that it was _his_ duty to take point.

Certain slight feelings of guilt towards my Security Officer (whose misgivings about the visit to the previous mine had certainly proved well-founded) enabled me to give in to the guy's ceaseless obsession about risks, though I'd had to exert some self-control to refrain from pointing out that since the place had no wildlife and even the scanners said it had been deserted for years, who the hell was likely to ambush us here?

One of those damned anomalies, that's who. When T'Pol's voice through the EV suit's external comm link said sharply that the planetoid's course was taking it through one of them, it had been too late to run for the shuttlepod, and who knew how the phenomenon would affect the transporter. We could only brace ourselves and hope…

And then it had happened.

 _"Malcolm!"_

Trip's second anguished yell brought me back to the present.

"For pity's sake, do you want to be next?" There would be time later, perhaps, to mourn the loss of a friend. Now, however, there was only _the mission._ And the light of the flashlights showed me that the tunnel further on had crumpled like tissue paper. It would need the powerful scanners only to be found up on the ship to reveal whether anything still remained of that equipment store, or whether it would be feasible to dig through to it in the hope that something, _anything_ , of use would be discovered there, to justify the cost…

"Pass me the scanner!" shouted Trip. "There's too much damn dust, I can't see anything!"

"Captain, I think you should get Commander Tucker back out of there before we lose him as well." Hayes' voice was tense, echoing my own thought.

"Commander, the ground where you are lying is extremely unsafe!" T'Pol was as close as I'd ever heard her to shouting. "There may be aftershocks. The ground needs to have time to settle. You should obey the captain and wait until it's safe to carry out a proper investigation!"

"You think Malcolm's got that long?" His blue eyes flashed with rage and desperation above the breathing mask. "Give me that goddamn scanner!"

"Not till you've tied yourself off!" I unslung the coil of rope from around my shoulder. I knew that T'Pol and the MACO were talking sense, but I shared Trip's desperation not to lose the ship's Armory officer. "You put this around your waist or you come back here, Commander, and that's an order!"

I flung a loop of it to Trip, and watched while my friend impatiently fed the end under his chest and tied it off securely. As soon as it was secured, I threw the rest of the rope to Hayes, who secured it around his own waist and braced himself, with T'Pol standing ready to seize it too and add her own strength, which I knew was so much greater than her petite size suggested. Then, with one hand grasping it, I retreated – centimeter by cautious centimeter on hands and knees, in an attempt to spread my weight and minimize the disturbance to the ground – to where the rock underfoot felt firmer, and the other two had sensibly remained. Now, should any accident follow, at least I had the chance of not losing another officer. "Right." I took the scanner from T'Pol, crouched down again and gently slid it forward along the ground for Trip to catch it up one-handed.

I held my breath as Trip leaned forward, hanging out perilously over the edge as he activated the scanner. I could hardly hear the silence for the banging of my heart in my chest, but the longer it went on the more apprehension grew in me that the results couldn't be good. "Anything?" I asked at last, desperate to know the good or the bad.

"Scanner must be playin' up," the engineer said, puzzlement and frustration plain in his voice. "It's not makin' any sense…"

"Maybe the anomaly affected it," I suggested doubtfully.

"Maybe." He lifted it and swung it around. "It's workin' fine now!"

"But can you _see_ anything down there?"

The hand carrying the scanner swung down again. The beam from the flashlight in the other shone in the haze of dust. "I can see something … I just don't know what it _is._ "

"Describe it, Commander," T'Pol suggested coolly.

"That's just it. I'm not sure I _can_ describe it." Trip's left hand turned, moving the beam like a small searchlight. "It's dark … movin' … like water…"

 _Water._ The word sank my heart even further, if that were possible. Had a man who was mortally afraid of drowning fallen into an underground river?

"But I don't think it _is_ water," he went on, oblivious. "The light's not reflectin' off it or anything. Not like water would. More like … More like…" He seemed to search for the right words. "More like, like… some sort of weird dust cloud. But it's not blue, it's … it's black. Or grey, sort of … glitterin'."

It wasn't exactly comforting. I wished I could get a look at this mysterious phenomenon for myself, and by the rise of a single Vulcan eyebrow behind the helmet faceplate I knew I wasn't the only one. Nevertheless, even as Trip shifted slightly, plainly trying to get a better look at the 'weird dust cloud' below him, part of the lip of the crack gave way, forcing him to scramble backwards as Hayes frantically reeled in the slack to give him support.

"'S definitely not water," he said, when he'd finally gotten back onto solid ground. "Saw some of the loose rock fall into it. No splash. Just went through it."

I took a deep breath and said the words he wasn't going to want to hear. "We have to go back to the ship and get extra equipment and better scanners. I'm sorry, Trip – I can't take risks with anyone else. We've got geologists on board who'll be able to advise us, and Travis is the most experienced climber I know. Maybe if that 'dust cloud' has settled by the time we get back, he'll take a hike down and see what he can find."

"Cap'n, we can't _wait_ that long!" The incredulity and despair were plain in his voice. "Malcolm could still be alive down there, but if his mask got damaged and he's breathin' that dust stuff–."

"Commander." T'Pol had been checking the scanner, and now spoke very gently. "There does not seem to be any fault with this machine. And the chances of Lieutenant Reed having survived such a fall are remote in the extreme."

She passed it to me. The uncompromising data stared up at me.

The crack was hardly five meters wide, but it was more than three times that deep. At the bottom of it was a mess of rubble, so dense that even the scanners must not be able to pierce it, for there was not even any indication where the body lay buried in it.

It was not giving up Malcolm Reed.

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	5. Chapter 5: Jessa

We walked until I no longer had the energy to set one foot before the other, and then I somehow got myself astride Arach's back, patting her in apology as I lay down. In truth it was not very comfortable, with the ridge of her withers hard against my breast and the side of my head resting atop her wearily nodding neck, but I had to get some rest somehow. Atreh, meanwhile, simply walked onward, unspeaking. I could hardly imagine how tired he must be, who had already ridden so much further and harder than I.

The sun sank closer towards the horizon. I got down and walked again. It did not seem that the rest I had snatched had helped me overmuch or for long.

The stranger was still unconscious.

"I am sorry about Vey." My voice startled Atreh; I think he had been almost walking in his sleep. "Maybe you should ride for a while now."

"If I ride I will sleep." He scrubbed his eyes with his knuckles. "I think Vey will be well enough in a few days. I shall hope so, at all events."

"If you sleep I will keep watch that we do not stray." I had even snatched a few moments' uncomfortable sleep on Arach's back; surely he could do the same?

"No insult to you, little maid, but I have not heard that maids in general have a reliable sense of direction. And you wish this man to live, I can see as much," he went on, his voice kindly enough. "Therefore it is best we reach the village as soon as may be."

His gaze measured the distance between the sun and the horizon. "We have another hour of light, perhaps. And after what we have done to them earlier this day, these poor beasts cannot walk all night."

He sighed. "Jessa, we will have to make a halt at nightfall. Just for a couple of hours, and as soon as I judge them rested enough we will go on. I am sorry. If we push them past their limit we will kill them, and then our own case will be so much the worse."

He was right of course. There was no help for it, and I said as much. I would have added that he was not to blame himself, but we were not on quite such terms as that. It was widely held among the tents that Briai's spirit had been present at his conception, and Atreh had something of the same seriousness as his soul-sire, as well as the same level, far-seeing eyes. His tawny, tangled curls he had from his mother, and his slow, rare smile was all his own.

It was typical, I thought, that his thought was all for the welfare of the horses and for the accomplishment of our task. For his own welfare, nothing.

But those couple of hours could grant him a little rest also. And would, if I had any say over the matter – which, being a Healer, I could sometimes achieve more successfully than the average woman.

"We should all eat and drink," was all I said. Walking so slowly, we had been able to allow the horses to snatch mouthfuls of grass along the way, so at least they had taken on some nourishment, but there had been no water for any of us. Fortunately the drag horse had a couple of water-skins tied atop its blanket, and like all of the hunters Atreh carried a stock of dried food to stay him over however long it took for the party to find the herds and make a kill.

He nodded wearily, but said nothing.

We all plodded onwards. In the west the sun sank slowly, slowly, growing bigger and orange, until all the plain looked bathed in fire.

But presently the fire began dying as the edge of the God's disc touched the horizon. The first hesitant stars appeared, and the long shadows deepened and merged into the growing dusk.

Between one step and another, seemingly without actually having come to a conscious decision, Atreh stopped. I thought that he could not move another step, having walked all that way to spare an old, tired horse the burden of his weight.

"Let you rest," I said gently, ignoring as best I could the screams of my own exhausted body to do the same. "I will care for the horses."

I knew his pride revolted at leaving me to do what was normally a man's task, but then I am not quite considered a woman at the best of times. He nodded, and slumped to the ground.

I hobbled over to his horse and unfastened the girth, handing him one of the water-skins. Two cloths had been serving as saddle-blankets; one of them I draped around his shoulders, the other I shook out and tied around the horse. Under these clear skies the temperature drops quickly on the Plains after sunset.

He had not drunk nearly enough before he handed me the skin. "Now you and the horses."

A mouthful stayed me, and then I poured a little into the horn cup and set it aside, hoping I might coax the stranger into drinking it. I think the horses would have drunk the rest of it between them, but it was not good for them to drink too much at once, and I shared only half of it between their nose-bags, keeping some back for when we had to start moving again.

I was not sure that the two of us would have the strength to lift the drag and fasten it into position it again, so I blanketed Arach and the drag horse, hobbled all three of them, poured grain from a third skin onto the ground in front of them, and left them to eat and doze as Atreh was doing. He had offered me one of the strips of dried meat he was chewing, but I was not hungry.

Finally, I was able to examine my patient.

He still had not awakened.

This was worrying.

The nature of the organ that sits inside the skull has fascinated Healers for years. Obviously it has something to do with the functions of the body, particularly waking and sleeping, for a blow to it will bring unconsciousness and even death. (I have heard it claimed that speech, sight and memory are also associated with it; there have been cases when damage to it leaves a person unable to speak or remember, and one ancient Healer in the WhiteEar Tribe claimed his grandfather knew of a man whose sight was lost in one eye through a blow to the back of the head.) If unconsciousness goes on too long, the body simply grows weaker and weaker, and eventually death inevitably follows.

I did not want that to happen to this man.

After he had been strapped to the drag, a blanket had been tied across him. Nevertheless as I tried with little success to coax sips of water into his mouth, I noticed that the skin of his face was cold.

Setting down the cup, I pushed my hand under the blanket. I needed to reassure myself that his body temperature had not fallen also. A little chill to the extremities will do no harm, as long as the cold is not too great or too prolonged; if his torso was losing too much heat, or failing to generate its own, this would be far more serious.

I needed to touch his skin – the thickness of those strange garments he was wearing was too great for me to gauge his temperature accurately through them. But I realised almost at once that I did not know how to open them. The inner shirt in particular was fastened close to his neck, and not toggled or laced with thongs but secured somehow with small discs that seemed to have been poked through holes in the fabric.

I fumbled with them nervously, not sure how they worked; presumably they _did_ work, as I could perceive no way his head could get through the neck of the garment if it was not loosened somehow, but I had not encountered this kind of fastening before. Also, I had no idea whether I might be offending against some kind of _geas_ by touching it, or even whether the customs of his tribe permitted a woman to unfasten a man's clothing without his consent.

Still, his life was more important than any _geas_ or tribal custom; I consoled myself with the thought that doubtless any offence could be laid before his priests afterwards. The fastening was not, after all, so very difficult once I had the way of it, and I admired the cunning of the idea even as I gently slid my hand inside to find bare flesh.

The blanket and his clothing had done reasonably well. He was not dangerously cold, but he was not as warm as I would have liked. This could be simply a fluctuation in the fever I had noted earlier, or it might indicate he had thrown it off (though there had been no sweat to signal the peak that usually precedes that), or it could even be a sign he was growing weaker and sinking towards death.

We had no fuel for a fire, and even if I could somehow find some it would be difficult to persuade the horse to stand close enough to it for the warmth to reach him; horses are afraid of fire, and will not willingly come close to it. I had Arach's second blanket, but it is of limited use to simply put extra covers on someone who is already cold. Certainly they will get warmer eventually as their body heat penetrates the blankets, but it is a slow process at best.

I hesitated. However, there did not seem to be any alternative. I hoped his gods would forgive any unintended offence.

I unfastened the ties that held the blanket across him, lifted it and slipped underneath to lie beside him, taking all the care possible not to disturb his rest. The drag poles creaked and dipped under the additional weight, but they held. I dragged my own blanket on top of us both and then I slid my arm gently across his chest, pressing as much as I could of my body against his to share its warmth with him without laying any of its weight on any internal injuries he might have. Finally I settled quietly alongside him.

Ai, but it was good to finally rest…

It was strange, laying alongside a man; I had never done so before. His smell was unlike that of any of the People, but not unpleasant: clean, with a tang of some unknown herbs. His breathing was regular, though a little faster and louder than I thought was probably normal for him (another symptom to be watched, especially if it slowed). There was no moon, and starlight was not bright enough for me to check the relative size of the pupils in those strange eyes even if they opened. A difference between them would be another sign of severe injury, and I hoped that it was not one I would find.

I felt that he was aware of my presence. He shifted slightly as though he would snuggle up to me for comfort, and although he did not wake he sighed something on a note of trouble, his voice so soft that had I not been where I was I would not have heard it.

When the herds move and we move with them, it is wasted effort to pitch all the tents. During such times, if the weather is hard, the whole tribe sleeps in the _Acha-we_ at night, and therefore I knew well enough the way a man sighs into the ear of his beloved.

I stroked his hair gently. It was springy under my fingers, and seemed to have some kind of coating to keep it in place.

"It is well with Hoshi," I whispered.

He slept on, unhearing.

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	6. Chapter 6: Tucker

This was a first for _Enterprise_.

I looked around me at the people on the Bridge, all silent and serious, some obviously not knowing what was coming, others showing in their faces that they knew bad news was on the way.

The captain had taken up position in front of his chair, at his most formal. I'd known him for so long, I could tell that the lack of expression was achieved and held at an unbelievable cost. Maybe others who didn't know him as well thought him an unfeeling bastard, but even with the unbearable weight of the mission weighing him down, it wasn't possible that such a loss wouldn't hurt him like hell.

Bernhard Müller, sitting at Tactical, was one of the people whose faces were grim with apprehension. His expression was mirrored by Em Gomez's. The heads of Beta and Gamma Shifts' Tactical teams had been asked to come up to the Bridge even though they were both technically off duty. She was standing behind him, her posture as stiff as formality could make it.

Captain Archer had already told Hoshi he wanted to make a ship-wide announcement. Now I watched him nod to her to open the channel, and with a face as pale and expressionless as that of a carved ivory statue, she pressed the button.

There was a tiny pause, deep and still. Then the captain lifted his head and spoke, his voice as stiff and formal as the way he was standing.

"I regret to announce the death today of Lieutenant Malcolm Reed. He died in the performance of his duty, and will be sadly missed.

"A memorial service will be held tomorrow afternoon in the Mess Hall at fourteen hundred hours. Anyone who wishes to attend will be welcome.

"In the meantime, I am sure Lieutenant Reed would wish us to honor his sacrifice by bringing our mission to a successful conclusion.

"Until we return to Earth and there is an opportunity to appoint a successor to Lieutenant Reed, Major Hayes will be taking over responsibility for Security operations."

Hayes was standing by the door to the turbo-lift. I was at the Engineering Station, and I flashed him a quick look to see how he reacted to that statement, but there was no expression on the MACO's face; none at all.

"I am sure that Lieutenant Reed would also wish all of his staff – who he was so proud to command – to give the same loyalty to their new Commanding Officer that they did to him.

"As a mark of respect, the ship will run half-lights for the duration of the service.

"Archer out."

And with that, the captain turned around and walked into his Ready Room. He didn't actually say he wanted to be left alone, but he might as well have done.

T'Pol slipped out from behind the Science console and took up station silently in the command chair, her face solemn. I found myself wondering bitterly if Vulcans 'did' grief at all, or whether it was just one more of those pesky emotions they kept penned up and stamped down.

"Guess I'd better get down to Engineerin', then," I said. I had no real reason to linger around here, and I half-hoped Hoshi might make an excuse and follow me. Though she'd said nothing after the captain's announcement, I'd had the distinct feeling for a while that there was more going on behind the scenes between Malcolm and Hoshi than was officially appropriate between ranks, and definitely the way she was now staring blindly down at her console seemed to support that theory.

She didn't move, though, and though I hesitated over whether to invent some excuse for having a quiet word with her in private, I suspected she was finding some kind of support in the conduct that was expected of her as a Starfleet officer. Maybe later, I'd see what could be arranged.

Em hadn't spoken after the captain's announcement either, but her hand was now resting lightly on Bernhard's shoulder and his hand was covering hers. I thought the sight was truly touching, and for a moment I thought about speaking to them, but there was a quiet comradeship of grief between them that for the present I didn't want to intrude on. I knew the regard between them and Malcolm had been deep and mutual, and that it would take a long time for them to recover from his loss. In the meantime, they'd be each other's support, and I'd make sure to let them know that if they needed anyone further up in the command chain at any time, I'd be there for them.

 _Malcolm's loss…_

Another one to chalk up to the goddamn Xindi. If Jon hadn't been so desperate to find anything that might possibly yield up a clue to the whereabouts and nature of those bastards, we'd never have bothered going down into that damned mine. Then we'd never…

Tears smarted in my eyes. I could still see the look of blank horror on Malcolm's face as the ground just dissolved underneath him. It felt like I'd go on seeing it for the rest of my life, a nightmare snapshot lurking at the back of my consciousness.

I'd argued against just abandoning him, all the way back to the ship. Even when we'd gotten back on board I'd followed Jon to his quarters and all but told him he was a jackass. He finally shut me up by asking how many other Lizzies did I want to die because we'd wasted time on a damned wild-goose chase trying to rescue someone who was already dead.

Way to go, Jon. You sure knew I wouldn't have any answer to that one.

 _Well, might as well go do something useful._ Maybe that might go some way towards dissolving the hard, helpless knot of grief inside me, another layer added to the burning pain of Lizzie's loss. If Malcolm really was gone, maybe the captain was right and all that could be done was to make sure he hadn't died for nothing.

Blinking away the tears that would have to fall freely later, in private, I headed for the turbo-lift. As the doors opened, the one thing happened that I'd hoped wouldn't: Hayes broke from his immobility and turned to join me in it.

The doors closed, sealing us into our own artificial little space. For a few moments the silence endured, while I sent up silent, stormy, heartfelt prayers that the MACO would have the sense to keep his mouth shut.

Apparently, however, he hadn't.

"I appreciate this may not be the best time for me to say it, Commander, but I sincerely regret Lieutenant Reed's death."

 _Yeah, I bet you do._ I couldn't speak; I just acknowledged the statement with a nod.

Hayes started to say something else; changed his mind, and breathed out audibly; then continued, in a slightly gentler tone. "I also appreciate that there are many people on board who'll have a better right to speak at the memorial service tomorrow. Nevertheless, with your permission, I'd like to say a few words too."

 _What words, Hayes? 'I'm glad the little Limey prick's out of my hair at last'?_ But Malcolm would have been the first to chide me for a lack of professionalism if I'd uttered the question, so I just made do with a red-rimmed glare. "I guess that's something you'll have to take up with the Captain, Major."

He slammed back into absolute formality. "I'll mention it to him at tomorrow's briefing, sir. I apologize for intruding on your time."

The arrival of the lift on D Deck saved me from having to respond. With a second curt nod I exited the lift.

A part of me was aware that I wasn't being fair to Hayes; though we'd rarely exchanged more than a few words, he seemed to me to be a decent enough guy, for all that the mere mention of him put Malcolm's hackles up. But right at this moment, I couldn't give a damn. I had to get through the rest of my shift somehow; and the shift after that, and the one after, and the one after … through however many it took till we found the Xindi.

And then the bastards would pay.

Every last god-damned penny.

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	7. Chapter 7: Jessa

I did not even know that I had fallen asleep.

It seemed to me that I had only just closed my eyes when I opened them to find Atreh looking down at me. Maybe it was the starlight that made his expression strange.

"Time to be moving, little maid. Is he still with us?"

Beneath the blankets, his body felt warmer than it had. His pulse was strong, and his breathing seemed quieter, though it was still too rapid for normal, easy sleep.

"Yes."

The rest had made all my muscles stiffen. It was all I could do not to yelp with discomfort as I got myself off the drag and tucked the covers closely around the man still on it, who slept on, oblivious. The familiar chill of the night had closed over the world, and it bit at my skin as I missed the comforting warmth of the blankets and a body to snuggle up to.

Both of the riding horses were now ready, their covers once more neatly folded into a pad under the girth.

"You should eat and drink," Atreh advised, handing me the water-skin, which still had a couple of mouthfuls jostling at the bottom of it; the other he was doubtless hoarding for later need. "We still have far to go."

The stars were still brilliant in an inky sky. There was not so much as a smear of light yet on the eastern horizon, yet we who live under the stars learn the smell of the dawn coming. It was perhaps an hour away, but we could cover much ground before then.

With a comradely push he got me onto Arach's back and handed me one or two strips of dried meat. I had never liked this much, but sense told me that I needed nourishment if I was not to slow us all down still further, and reluctantly I began nibbling at it.

With a grunt he could not quite suppress, he got himself onto his own horse, plainly feeling the beast well enough rested by now to carry him for a time and allow him to conserve his strength. Then he unfastened the lead rope from the dragger's bridle, which had been fastened to his mount's girth, and the three of us set off again.

"How much further?" I asked, after we had ridden for a while in silence. I tried not to sound plaintive, but could not quite succeed.

He glanced at me. "We should reach the village before midday, if we do not delay." He looked back at our sleeping prisoner-guest – I thought, with some concern. "How is he? Should he not be waking by now?"

"He seems well enough, though I think he still has some fever. Maybe from the head injury." Although fever was a rare occurrence in such cases, it could follow, and it was an ominous sign. I could only hope desperately that its presence was merely a coincidence. "As for waking … he will wake when his body is ready." _If it ever is_ , a gloomy voice in my mind whispered. I remembered with the clarity of despair how those three supposedly healthy people in the spring had burned up with the marsh fever that none of my remedies had been able to cure, and slid into unconsciousness and death.

All the Healers' lore of the People say that the marsh fever is without mercy. When it comes, it is rare for it to leave again without taking a few souls with it. Nevertheless, I had not lost any patient before then, and the sense of failure rode me hard enough without the knowledge that there were those who thought I had not tried hard enough to avert it…

"It was their time to go." Atreh's voice out of the semi-darkness made me jump.

I was so startled by how closely he had followed my thought that I replied more frankly than I would normally have done. "Not all of the tribe think so."

"Those who have eyes to see could think no differently. Those who think differently do not have eyes, and therefore you should take no heed of their opinion."

"Roish seems to see clearly enough." I spoke a little bitterly, before I could stop myself.

"It is not an easy thing to lose a son. Her pain demands she blame someone for his death, and therefore she blames you. All know this. All but a few believe she is wrong."

There was another name on my tongue, but I had caught myself by now. I had no wish to disrupt – and quite possibly end – this strange openness between us, and I was quite certain that mentioning Makia would make him close up like a _kiaq_ flower when a mischievous child drips water into it.

Still, I was glad that he had spoken, however unexpectedly. It eased the burden a little, even if it could never be fully lifted.

"Likewise, if this man dies, you should not blame yourself," he went on. "I know you will do all you can to save him. You have the soul of a Healer, Jessa, as well as the hands."

"So that he can face questioning when he wakes."

"That also." His voice was neutral. "But that will not be your first reason, nor your whole reason."

And having delivered himself of that enigmatic statement, he pressed his heels into his horse's sides and upped the pace just a little, so that I was too busy keeping an eye on the progress of the drag to press him to know what he meant by it.

=/\=

They were watching for us, back at the village.

Almost as soon as the first points of the tents appeared over the horizon, those of the tribe who had good enough horses came galloping to join us, anxious for news.

They were not surprised to see the third horse with a drag attached to its girth, but the passenger the drag carried was an astonishment to all. I had to drop from Arach's back and walk beside it, pushing aside horses that came dangerously close to jostling it as their riders peered and craned for a better sight.

"Have a care, lest someone trample him to death!" Atreh had been keeping an eye on events, and presently spoke sharply. The tribesmen who had largely ignored my efforts reined aside at once, and rode behind us the rest of the way. I was aware of the mutter of voices, and of the nature of those mutters. In my heart I could not blame them overmuch, for there were women and children in the camp to be thought of, but it seemed to me a sad thing that they could not see a stranger (even as injured and helpless as this one was) without perceiving him as a deadly threat before he had so much as uttered a word of his purpose.

As we drew nearer to the camp those on foot came out. The children are always the first to dash up and ask questions, but on this occasion their elders drove them away with sharp words, and when the news had run ahead their mothers were quick to draw them back and hold them there.

"Where will you have him placed?" asked Atreh as we finally rode between the tents.

If it had been one of the People I would have placed him in the _acha-we_ , the Tent of Gathering, for we value companionship above everything and even the sick seem to draw comfort from having loved ones about us (though not, of course, those sick of a contagion, who must naturally be housed apart lest it spread). Now, however, no separate lodging had been prepared, and I blinked around a little helplessly.

"He will have to share my tent."

"No." The word came flatly. "It is not fitting and it is not safe."

"Does he seem to you to represent a danger?" The spell of the dark hours still lingered about me somewhat, so that I spoke with less respect than was usual. I waved my hand at the sleeping man, trussed on the drag like a kill.

"Perhaps not now, no." His measured tone said he would not quarrel with me, however much I might invite it. "But when he wakes–"

 _"If_ he wakes," I interjected.

 _"If_ he wakes, things may be very different. I will not have you endangered because you have too much kindness for your own safety."

I exhaled. It was not respectful to argue with a man, and even though Atreh was hardly beyond his Proving he was accepted as such among the tribe. Still, he was not beyond the voice of reason. "It is not a matter of kindness, but of sense. I must care for him, and he must be kept warm and comfortable. My medicines are in my tent. Where else could he be safely housed? If another tent was set up, still I would have to share it with him until he is recovered. He cannot be left alone. He cannot be brought to the _acha-we_. If anyone else is willing to take over the care of him, let them step forward."

There was a certain amount of shuffling. I had not looked for a volunteer, and none appeared.

Atreh looked hard at me. "I will have your promise that he will not be unbound while you are alone with him."

"I have no wish to die at his hands." I lifted my right index finger and touched it to my heart to signify the promise, and at that he sighed and led the way to my tent.

There was a press of people by now wishing to get their first sight of the man we had brought home, and questions and comments ran from mouth to mouth. I doubted whether they fully believed that we knew so little, though the information that he had been found in the Sacred Cave drew looks of horrified incredulity.

"Jessa will care for him until he wakes. Then he will be cared for under guard until Briai comes back," Atreh said levelly. "The ordering of things concerning him is in my charge, according to our lord's wish. He will not be allowed to be a threat to any of the People. I have sworn it, and let any who doubts me say so."

There were a few looks – he was young as yet for such a responsibility – but no-one spoke.

A few of the bravest (or most inquisitive) lent a hand to unfasten the drag from the horse's girth and carry it into the tent. The only place that would accommodate it was just to the right of the entrance flap, and though that meant the poles would lie across the entrance and be something I would have to remember to step over in my comings and goings, I knew that Atreh would not allow me to have the support removed from it. The framework provided anchorage for the imprisoning thongs, and if they were not thought adequate, better would very quickly be improvised.

When all was in place, he squatted down and checked carefully that there would be no chance of the prisoner getting free easily if he should regain consciousness. He appeared satisfied, because he nodded and rose to his feet, glancing at me. "Jessa, you should eat and rest. I will appoint guards to keep watch while you sleep, and if he wakes, you will be called at once. Will that suffice?"

He did not have to ask; the small courtesy touched me. "It will be well," I replied formally. In truth, I was conscious of hunger and tiredness, and would be glad to eat. I doubted whether he would have the same privilege – I could imagine that a stormy gathering would very shortly follow, with all the camp demanding explanations and answers he simply did not have – but for the present, there was no more that any of us could do.

I looked down at my unexpected guest, whom I had begun to think of in my mind as 'Grey-Eyes'. He was still unconscious, and his colour was too high; the fever had risen again. "But first I will give him some medicine, if I can," I added quickly.

He nodded, as one who had expected no other. "One last thing: remove his shoes and hide them. It will be one more guard against him making an escape." Then, with a comet-tail of tribespeople, he left the tent. A moment or two later two of the elders came back and sat in the tent opening, very much on guard as they watched all that went on with suspicious eyes.

I ignored them as I pulled out my bag of medicines.

I had work to do.

* * *

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	8. Chapter 8: Hayes

"Ensign."

If I was surprised to receive a late-night visit from the extremely attractive Spaniard who was in charge of Tactical and Security during the Gamma Shift, I could be reasonably certain it didn't show, either in my face or my voice.

Gomez stood at parade rest in the corridor, her voice all but devoid of emotion. "I apologise for disturbing you at such a late hour, _Mayor_. I wonder if you could spare the time for a word."

"Certainly. Come on in."

I didn't miss the instinctive flicker of her gaze around the room. It was spotlessly clean and neat; I can't bear an untidy working environment. The only sign of my occupation was the PADD currently resting on my desk top where I'd been transferring data for analysis during the next training session.

"Please, take a seat."

"Thank you. I will stand, if you please." Her voice was armored, and I looked at her narrowly. Relations between me and her lately-deceased boss had not exactly been cordial, and I suspected that she'd inherited Reed's hostility as surely as though the Brit had left it to her in his will.

I'd rather hoped that might not be the case, but if it was I'd just have to deal with it and so would she. I was now the ranking officer of the Security Department, and though I had every intention of respecting the way their previous Head had run his team, that didn't mean I had to slavishly follow it. Whatever his other faults, however, Reed had instilled proper military discipline in his staff. That should stand them in good stead for adapting to the new regime, though there would undoubtedly be a difficult period of adjustment while they were brought up to the fitness levels the MACOs were expected to maintain.

"How may I help you, Ensign?" I asked formally, matching her manner.

She did not reply for a moment. Her eyes bored into mine like lasers, but I've faced particle weapons at closer quarters in my time and I endured their inquisition without flinching.

"You were there when Lieutenant Reed died," she said at last. "I would be grateful if you would tell me what happened. I think the _capitán_ is not ready to speak of it yet."

It wasn't an altogether unexpected request, and as one of Reed's seconds I thought she was entitled to know. I gave a brief account of exactly what had happened in the mine, including the way Commander Tucker had risked his own life in the effort to retrieve his junior officer.

She listened silently, attentive to every word. When I had finished, "So you did not see his body."

"Ensign, it was buried under tons of rock," I said quite gently. "I saw the scans. There was so much on top of him the scanner couldn't even show us where he was."

A long pause. "So," she said at last. "You did not see his body, and the scanner did not show it."

"We saw him fall." I held on to my patience; she had a right to ask questions, and it was hardly surprising that she should want to hang on to the illusion that her boss might somehow have survived. "Believe me, the captain didn't want to admit the truth. But there wasn't any alternative."

A gleam of what was unmistakably scorn entered her eyes – I couldn't help but notice how beautiful they were, though right now they were anything but friendly. "And of course you were sorry."

I breathed out slowly, but hard. There was only so much leeway I was prepared to extend, and she was pushing it – right to the edge. "Lieutenant Reed and I may have sometimes differed in our opinions, Ensign, but I know his intention was exactly the same as mine – to safeguard the ship and carry out the mission. His experience out here is something I don't have, and I have no problem admitting that. So if for no other reason, for that one alone, I _was_ sorry. And I know that he left behind some good friends on board ship, and that many of the crew will feel his loss very deeply."

A lift of her chin defied my honestly proffered sympathy. "You are right, _Mayor_ : he was a good man, and he will be mourned for long and long, _if_ he is dead. And if he _is_ dead, then you need not be concerned; those who he left behind him will wish to do him honour in your eyes. You will not find us wanting because our _Patrón_ is gone."

"I'm certain of that, Ensign Gomez."

"I thank you for your time, _Mayor_." She turned towards the door, but as she reached it she stopped and looked back, her lovely face hard. "I have only one more question for you, _Mayor_ Hayes, and I wish you to think long and carefully before you give me an answer – if you decide you have one to give. _Did you try hard enough to find Lieutenant Reed?"_

=/\=

 _'_ _Did you try hard enough to find Lieutenant Reed?'_

The question was impertinent – if not downright insolent – and only the realization of how deeply affected the normally extremely disciplined ensign must be beneath that hard surface had enabled me to let it pass. It was also absurd, and I dismissed it almost as soon as it was asked. However much of an insecure ass Reed had been, he was an intrinsic part of the hierarchy of _Enterprise_ , an experienced officer who ran a tight ship as he saw it – even if his views didn't coincide with my own, a scrupulous examination of his methods had found surprisingly little with which to find fault. There had been one or two tiny shortfalls against my extremely exacting standards, and a few additional drills would have brought the security team and senior officers closer to the MACOs' combat capabilities, but on the whole Reed had done an excellent job. He sure wasn't a pleasure to work with, but he was an exceptionally valuable asset to the ship, and for that reason alone it would have been crazy to have left him down on the planet if there had been any hope he was still alive and there was still a possibility of rescue.

My conscience was completely clear on that score. Whether I'd liked the guy or not, I'd genuinely believed there _was_ no hope. I still believed it now. My own scanner had confirmed the verdict of the Fleeter's; there was no bio-sign. By the time we left, so much rock had crumbled into the hole that it was all but filled to the brim, and only a few pools remained of that weird mist that Tucker had seen. Reed was gone, buried under tons of rubble, and with the whole place now highly unstable and likely to be visited by another anomaly at any time, there had been no point whatsoever in delaying the mission, wasting valuable time and resources, and putting more lives at risk by trying to find his body.

Subsequent scans using the ship's powerful onboard equipment had confirmed the fact that the mine had collapsed completely from the point where the tragedy had occurred, making a return visit as hopeless as it would be dangerous.

I'd said as much to the captain at the time, ignoring Commander Tucker's openly hostile reaction. I could understand the chief engineer's resentment; it was common knowledge around the ship that the two men were close buddies as well as long-serving fellow officers, and Tucker must be at least aware of the friction in the Security department. Nevertheless that emotional connection undermined the impartiality of his judgment, as his frankly reckless behavior at the cliff edge demonstrated. If losing the head of Tactical wasn't bad enough, the head of Engineering had damn near followed him, and for all that Reed was a fine security officer, Tucker was quite simply the finest warp engineer of his generation. It was the (in my private opinion) reckless endangerment of the whole senior command structure of _Enterprise_ for very small hope of reward that had prompted me to request permission to accompany them down to the mine, regardless of the fact that Reed would regard this as implying that his own protection was insufficient and would – yet again – take offense at it.

My reasoning had been backed up by T'Pol, whose Vulcan logic saw the sense in it even if Reed's eyes had indeed glittered with the anticipated outrage at the slur on his competence. Nonetheless, on the journey back to _Enterprise_ the air in the shuttlepod had been heavy with grief (in between Tucker's outbursts), and I sensed that in her own way she shared it; which was kind of a surprise, but I'd already come to the conclusion that she wasn't exactly your average Vulcan.

Reed was gone. Dead and buried. Like him or not, that was the end of it.

And yet, when I rose next morning, the question was still murmuring in my ears, Gomez's distinctive accent strong with doubt, if not outright accusation:

 _'_ _Did you try hard enough to find Lieutenant Reed?'_


	9. Chapter 9: Jessa

Grey-Eyes woke just before sunrise.

His fever had begun to abate early the previous evening and then he had fallen into a normal sleep, allowing me to sleep also, if not so soundly. I had heard the change in his breathing even in my sleep and was already by his side, watching anxiously. Kerran, watchful in the doorway, leaned forward and laid a hand on his spear even as Sorav got up and hurried to summon Atreh.

I had kept a lamp burning in the tent all night in case he might wake and be afraid in the darkness and a strange place, and I brought it close to him so that I might catch any sign of pain in his face when he came back to himself.

It did not surprise me that the first startled opening of those astonishing eyes was followed almost instantly by an unmistakable convulsion. He was still tied, and could not move. The best he could do was to turn his head aside. To my certain knowledge he had not eaten or drunk for more than a day, and nothing more than a little clear fluid came up; but at least there was no blood in it.

"Do not be afraid," I urged him, cleaning his mouth with a cloth as I supported him by one shoulder as best I could for his bonds. "Get rid of everything you can. I will give you something to make you feel better afterwards."

Whether or not he understood or even heard me, he continued to retch. It was largely wasted effort, for his stomach was empty, but it went on for some minutes. When I thought it was over I gave him a sip of water, but it came up again almost at once; still, this is not a bad thing, as long as it does not go on overlong. A person's body knows when there is still badness in it to be got rid of.

He was still weakly trying to empty his stomach when Atreh arrived, along with several of the older men to bear witness for the village. Doubtless there were others outside, listening, but my tent was hardly large enough to hold the six of us now inside it.

"Has he said anything?"

"He may when he is able to speak." I was a little tetchy in reply; it was surely plain to anyone who had eyes that the stranger was having enough trouble drawing breath without volunteering information.

There was some shift and glancing among the elders at that; doubtless they thought that no woman, especially one of such low status as I, should speak so to a young man whom many thought might one day lead the clan. But Atreh said no word of reproach; indeed, a look of faint amusement warmed the trouble in his face. He simply squatted down at the opposite side of the drag, and waited patiently as Grey-Eyes struggled for breath and composure.

As the retching fit passed, it seemed momentarily that a look of recognition and relief passed across the stranger's face as he glanced up at Atreh; through his coughing he said a word that sounded like 'rip'. But as he blinked the water from his eyes that the long effortful minutes had set there, the look vanished, and was replaced by bewilderment and wariness as he stared around him, clearly unable to understand how he had come here.

I gave him water again, and held a bowl for him to spit it into when he had rinsed his mouth. Perhaps kindly treatment would make him more ready to talk freely.

"Greetings, stranger." Atreh leaned forward and spoke slowly and carefully. "You are among the tents of the Longtail tribe. Our healer has been caring for you. We wish to know your name and who you are, and how you came to be in our Sacred Cave."

Grey-Eyes listened to him intently, that much was clear. But there was no comprehension of the words; none at all.

Maybe he was feigning. I did not think so, but that judgement was not mine to make.

It had always been a possibility that he would not understand our language. Atreh took a deep, slow breath and reduced the attempted communication to its simplest start. He touched his own chest and introduced himself in the formal style appropriate when meeting a stranger. "Longtail Atreh ereich-Faraih." A man introduces himself by stating his tribe, then his given name and maternal descent.

Plainly the requirement for the corresponding response was understood. Slowly and with difficulty Grey-Eyes responded, so that everyone leaned forward to hear better.

His accent was very strange to our ears, but I picked out his given name. LefTenAnt.

He was plainly not one of the People. Unless he was speaking in one of the more obscure dialects – the folk of the Islands, it is said, have a tongue more or less their own – then this was not our language at all. Nevertheless, his maternal name was the same as his tribe name, and since it is unthinkable for a man to lie about his ancestry, that made his mother a powerful person in her own right. 'Mal-cum' was perhaps his people's equivalent of our _ereich,_ which means 'son of'. 'Reed' must be his tribe name of course.

'Reed LefTenAnt mal-cum-Reed." Atreh repeated the strange name carefully to make sure he had it right.

From the way that Grey-Eyes blinked I was not sure the attempt was wholly successful, but it seemed close enough.

"We wish to know what you are doing here," Atreh went on. "I wish no quarrel with you, but this information I must have. And I advise you not to lie."

I advised that too, though I said nothing. As young as he is, Atreh can read men. He would know if the stranger tried to lie; there are many ways in which the body betrays untruths that come from the mouth.

Again, there was no response, only the look of one who wishes he could understand.

It still was not my place to speak, but I believed even more strongly that Grey-Eyes truly did not know what he was being asked. I thought that Atreh suspected it too, though he eyed the man hard and long.

"I will not question you further till you are stronger, but question you I must. Our Tribe Lord will wish to know all you have to tell us when he returns. In the meantime, if you answer me fully and honestly, and conduct yourself as a guest should, you will not be harmed."

No answer.

His eyes cut to mine, perplexity in them. "Jessa, is he recovered? Can he hear what I am saying?"

"I believe he is _better_ ," I said honestly; it was my professional opinion as a Healer that he wanted, not my opinion on whether or not the stranger could speak our language. "His fever is gone, and he does not seem to have any difficulty in moving, as far as I can tell. As for his hearing, I do not know; a blow to the head can affect a person's hearing. But I have not been able to examine him properly. I did not want to disturb him till he woke of his own accord."

"Then you will examine him now, while I am present to ensure you come to no harm."

It was clearly an order. He drew his sword and rested the point of it on the ground, and then leaned forward and with his free hand pulled loose the cords that bound the prisoner to the drag-frame, gesturing him to stand; which, after a moment, he did, although with a stiffness that was probably as much due to the hours he had spent immobile there as to any intention to resist a clear order. At any rate, from the way he got to his feet he did not seem to have any broken bones, or any serious damage to his spine.

There was no point in arguing with Atreh's command to me either, though I swung an indignant look around the others present. It was not in keeping with the treatment of a guest to strip him of his clothing in front of all the village; he might yet come to be a prisoner and could then expect less courteous usage, but until he was declared one thing or the other then the People's laws were strict about what treatment he should receive.

He nodded, conceding my unspoken point. "Kerran shall stay where he is. Everyone else shall leave."

Not for the first time, there were echoes of Briai's confident authority in his voice, and the elders doubtless heard it. Not without doubtful looks and a few whispers, they left, and voices outside told that they were passing on details to those who waited there for news.

Atreh brought his gaze back to Grey-Eyes. "Our Healer needs to examine you. Remove your clothing."

No response. It seemed that he expected none by now, for he stood up, reached out and touched the collar-flap of the blue garment and tugged at it, miming pulling it off.

There was no doubt that Grey-Eyes was quick to understand what he was being told to do. He shot a glance straight at me, and his discomfort was obvious.

"He need not remove everything," I said hastily. "If he has an undergarment, he can keep it on." Not that I was not curious, for I am female and normal after all, but this was for the purpose of examining his hurts, not humiliating him.

"So. I will leave him his modesty if it is possible, but you must be confident he has no other injury you could treat. If you turn your back for a moment, he will perhaps be more comfortable."

I complied. There followed a small, strange, squealing sound and then the further small sounds of cloth and breathing that suggested the blue outer garment was being removed; I heard it fall to the ground. Fainter sounds told me the black inner garment was also being removed, and it dropped atop its fellow. He must have been wearing something else as well, for a third item fell onto the pile.

"You can turn back now."

Presumably Atreh had gestured him to lie down again, for Grey-Eyes was back on the hide between the drag poles. He was now naked but for a blue garment that covered the lower part of his body, and even in the lamplight I could now see that he was badly bruised in places. The top of his left thigh had taken a blow that must have been almost the equal of the one to his head, if the great red and purple blossom of bruising there was any testament.

It was also clear that he had no _qeh_ on his body either, unless they were in the small area hidden beneath the undergarment. Its upper hem sat low enough to display his flanks, where they usually appear in greater numbers than on the face, sometimes following the curve of the pelvic bones towards the groin. Apart from the bruises, however, his skin was uniformly coloured.

I moved to the side of the drag and knelt beside him, aware of Atreh close and protective at my back.

The grey eyes were wide and wary. He did not know what either of us intended.

I had brought a bowl of ointment that was sovereign for bruises, and spread some on a clean piece of fur. Moving slowly, I placed the fur face-down on the sore place on his thigh, and brought out a leather strap to bind it firmly in place. As soon as he understood my purpose he lifted his knee to let me pass the strap underneath it; I thought he would have tried to take it from me and attend to his own hurts, but he glanced at Atreh and lay still.

I next examined the lump on the side of his head. This seemed smaller than it had been, and the cut had begun to heal cleanly enough, but I still smeared another sort of ointment on it, apologising absurdly for the fact that it would sting.

Then I repeated my examination of earlier, this time more confident to test that his limbs worked as they should. I thought he understood my request that he should indicate if anything pained him, but although I heard his breathing change several times he remained stubbornly silent.

I sat back on my heels finally, as sure as I could be that he had suffered no life-threatening injury other than that blow to the head, which – so far, by the gods' kindness – seemed to have had no serious effect on him.

Unless it was to his hearing.

"Kerran, make a noise of some kind," I said aloud, careful not to look at the man to whom I spoke; he was at the back of the tent, watching intently, his spear at the ready in case of any sudden attack by the prisoner.

Kerran was always quick on the uptake. He had a gift for mimicking the calls of birds and beasts, and the sharp yelp of a falcon cut the quiet.

Grey-Eyes made no movement, but I saw the quick dart of his gaze in response. There was nothing wrong with his hearing.

Atreh came to the same conclusion. "He hears well enough," he said to me quietly. "It remains to establish whether he understands – or chooses to pretend he does not."

It was not my place to answer that question, but my stomach tightened a little at the note in his voice. He would naturally wish to have as much information as might be by the time Briai and the others returned, and if force would get that information then he would not turn aside from employing it. He was not a cruel man, quite the opposite, but like any other he was aware of the gathering swell of rumour out of the southlands, and this was not one of the People…

"I will give him until tomorrow's sunset to think on his situation," he told me, his voice level. "If Briai has returned by then, the decision will be his. If not, I will do what must be done."

I knew well what must be done. I would have to be present, for it would be my province to say when a thing would cause so much damage that it would beyond me to heal. Had Grey-Eyes been convicted of any actual wrongdoing, or even ill intent, I might have been spared the duty; as it was, it was no more than suspicion, and to permanently injure an innocent man was contrary to the gods' law.

"At least let me make him comfortable before you bind him again," I managed to say.

"I am no brute, Jessa. Do what you will, within reason."

Grey-Eyes had been confined and unconscious for more than a day. He did not need telling what the jug was for, and fairly snatched it from my hand. Already aware that he valued his dignity, I busied myself with my medicines while he used it.

He needed nourishment, too, though it would be wise not to tax his stomach overmuch for a while. By the time he set down the jug I had smeared a little of my precious store of honey on a piece of bread, and now I offered it to him. The honey contained a decoction of painkilling herbs, and would help to ease whatever discomfort he still felt from his injuries.

"You should eat," I said gently. "It will make you feel better."

He responded. The word I heard was 'Thankyeou', and though I did not know what it meant I believed he meant to convey gratitude. He took the bread from me politely and carefully, and after a first cautious nibble ate it hungrily, washing it down with more water that I offered him when it was all eaten.

There was warmth in the grey eyes when he handed me back the water-skin. "Thankyeou," he said again. Definitely he was trying to show me he was grateful for my care.

I thought despondently that after tomorrow's sunset he would not be grateful to me. If he was as innocent as I believed him, he would think me a party to his inquisition. If he was not one of The Others, he would not understand what Atreh wanted, why he was being tortured and hurt. If he did not speak our language he could not tell us what we needed to know, even if he wished to.

And for all my skills, he might still have some injury that questioning might aggravate. He might die under it, believing I could have saved him and had not cared enough to try.

And that was a thing I could not imagine how I would endure.

* * *

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	10. Chapter 10: Hayes

_'Did you try hard enough to find Lieutenant Reed?'_

I chewed slowly on the piece of peppered steak I'd just put in my mouth, and tried not to listen to the question that had been repeating itself in my head all morning, every time the pressure of my daily routine plus the additional demands of the responsibility for the Fleeter security team allowed me the time to listen to it. Which, it had to be said, wasn't often – but still more often than I might have hoped.

I'd ordered Ensign Müller to step up into Reed's shoes covering the Tactical Station during the Alpha shift for the time being. Gomez would take care of Beta, and a crewman she'd recommended had received a temporary promotion to cover Gamma. I was confident that they could all cope well enough, but that didn't make any of them head of the team. That responsibility was now mine, and all I had to do was find an additional eight hours in each twenty-four in which to fit in the extra work.

I looked across the Mess Hall. The ship's helmsman and the comm officer were sitting together at a table, eating lunch (nominally) and although Mayweather's usually sunny expression was one of deep trouble, Sato's was one of absolute despair. Even as I watched, she shoved the heel of one hand across her eyes as though pushing away brimming tears.

McKenzie's always assiduous in passing on any scraps of ship's gossip she picks up; information's valuable, even if it isn't always accurate, and she's usually good at sifting out the dross before she hands it over. I'd initially dismissed the suggestion – just one among the usual stuff – that Sato and Reed were sweet on each other. Now, however, seeing that gesture, I wondered. All of the Alpha shift would be expected to attend the memorial service, and no doubt it would be tough on all of them, considering the time they'd served together – it was the first time they'd be saying goodbye to one of their own. But was that all it was in Sato's case?

 _'Did you try hard enough to find Lieutenant Reed?'_

=/\=

Ship's gymnasium, nineteen hundred hours.

I'd done the regulation distance on the running machine, even beating my previous best time by a couple of seconds. Nothing had changed. The mission was going on.

One thing _had_ changed, however.

I was wearing headphones.

Normally I prefer silence while I work out; it gives me more chance to go over things in my head, and long experience has made me pretty expert at separating the stream of my thoughts from the repetitive grind of setting one foot in front of the other, over and over again while I pound out the distance. Most nights I can get to the end of the run without even realizing I've done so, only alerted by the flash on the console that tells me I've finished. That day, however, though I'd more than enough to occupy my attention throughout the duration of the run – and, indeed, well past it – I'd brought headphones, and the music slamming through them should have provided a numbing wall to keep out that one damn sentence.

It should have, but it didn't.

 _'Did you try hard enough to find Lieutenant Reed?'_

I'd spoken to Müller during the course of the afternoon, discussed the changes I intended to make and the best way to start implementing them while causing the minimum of disruption; I knew it might come across as insensitive, picking up the reins even before the memorial had been held, but Reed would have been the first to insist we couldn't afford to check stride. The Bavarian had been impeccably polite, as he always was. He listened carefully, checked his understanding, made intelligent suggestions and was generally far more co-operative than Reed had ever been. And yet, although my imagination didn't normally run to such flights of fancy, it had felt – yes, as though there were an invisible wall between us.

Maybe I was just over-reacting. Maybe I was just picking up on signals that the other man couldn't help giving off, however smart, disciplined and obedient he was; after all, Müller was still in the first shock of grief, and however hard he tried to conform to the new order, he'd have a real job coming to terms with it at first. People aren't machines – they need time to adapt to changed circumstances, and I was prepared to give the Fleeter security team all the time and understanding I could, within reason and the confines of military discipline.

Nevertheless, my instinct was still flagging up trouble.

At least the Beta Shift team leader hadn't displayed the open hostility of his Gamma Shift counterpart, and yet in some ways his deliberate neutrality might well prove harder to deal with. Gomez was fighting me out in the open field, whereas Müller – superficially co-operative – had dug fortifications and was eyeing me through gun-slits in them.

Reed had been an ass, but he'd evidently been an ass capable of inspiring extraordinary loyalty. It was beginning to dawn on me that the guy might be even more of a problem to me dead than he had been alive.

Typical.

I switched off the running machine and headed for the showers, my face set. It was too early, in my opinion, to make definitive judgments on the situation, leave alone go running to my superiors about it. I'd handled difficult situations before and had plenty of options to explore. These were good officers; I just had to find the way to reach them. They might never like me, but somehow I'd show them I deserved their trust, just as Reed had done.

 _'Did you try hard enough to find Lieutenant Reed?'_

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	11. Chapter 11: Tucker

I took a deep breath.

Then I keyed in my override code.

The room inside was silent and dark. I passed my hand over the sensor and the lights came on, illuminating its total emptiness. Malcolm wasn't here.

He never would be, ever again.

This was the worst part. Surely, this had to be the worst part. Seeing the neatly-made bunk and tidy shelves, the PADDs stacked beside the computer screen, the lithograph of HMS _Victory_ that was the room's only ornament; the notice board without a single letter or a photograph on it, and the cabinet door neatly closed, hiding the spare uniforms and civilian clothes that I knew were hanging in regimented order behind it. Even the toiletries in the bathroom were arranged in height order on the shelf, neat as a row of little soldiers, and the towel the room's owner had used that morning was folded on top of the laundry bag rather than just chucked into it anyhow like mine always were.

I moved forward. My feet felt like they were made of lead. I wanted to feel some kind of connection to my lost buddy, but there was nothing here. Malcolm always had been way too good at hiding everything that was personal, like he had no connection to anyone or anything; like he didn't come from a family like everyone else but had been produced in some goddamn weapons factory for the express use of Starfleet.

I knew that wasn't true. As long and slow and tough as the process had been, I'd discovered the human being beneath that stiff outer shell, a man I'd been proud to call a friend. There might still be a lot I didn't know about him, and now I never would, but I knew I'd lost another piece of my world.

"For nothing." I didn't know I'd spoken aloud till the words echoed in the silent room. "You died for _nothing_ , Malcolm. We didn't get a goddamn thing out of that mine. We just left you buried in it."

I sat down on the bunk and buried my face in my hands. Hot, desolate tears spilled between my fingers. First Lizzie and now Malcolm. How many others was I going to lose before we were through?

The chime startled me. For a couple of seconds I thought about refusing to answer, but whoever it was sure wasn't calling to speak to Malcolm. "Come." Defiantly, I scrubbed a hand across my eyes but made no more effort than that to hide what I'd been doing. Crying over the death of a pal wasn't something I was ashamed of.

I wasn't sure who I'd expected it to be, but I definitely hadn't expected to see Travis.

"Commander, I … I'm sorry for intruding," he mumbled, obviously mortified at having interrupted private grieving.

"'S okay. Guess you wouldn't have come lookin' for me if it wasn't important. Spill the beans, Travis."

However, it seemed he was finding it difficult to make a start on whatever he'd come to say. He came into the cabin and closed the door behind him, and stood there looking around a mite desperately, as though he was hoping to find inspiration from the lithograph of HMS _Victory_ or the spine of one of the books on military history and tactics that were lined up precisely on the shelf above the bunk. Maybe he'd never been inside Malcolm's quarters before, and couldn't believe how Spartan they were.

"I guess it's hit all of us pretty hard," I said bleakly, at last, suspecting that Travis had found out where I was and just come to keep me company; it was the sort of kindness I'd expect from him, knowing him as well as I did from all the years we'd served aboard _Enterprise_ together.

That morning, I'd been on the Bridge when the captain had finally given the order to break orbit, leaving the planetoid to continue its lonely path through the darkness of space. The command was the final admission that if there ever had been any hope, there wasn't any more, and there was an instant's complete silence before Travis acknowledged the order and obeyed it. Recalling that moment, I went on softly, "It'll take a while before … before I won't look across to Tactical when I come up on the Bridge and expect to see him…"

"I guess," admitted Travis. But he still seemed kind of uneasy, and I looked at him more closely.

"You came after me for something, right? So what was it?"

Travis hesitated, stared at the floor for a moment, and then seemed to finally make his mind up. "Sir, I … I think you should to talk to Hoshi."

I squinted at him. "Hoshi?"

"Yes, sir." He was clearly unhappy, and it wouldn't do any good to question him any further; and he definitely wouldn't have spoken if he hadn't thought it was necessary.

"You think I … No, cancel that. Thanks for tellin' me, Travis."

He nodded and left the room.

I sat on for a little longer. Presently, not knowing quite why I did it, I ran my fingers lightly over the buttons of Malcolm's alarm clock. The alarm was still switched on, and the movement of my index finger switching it off felt somehow overwhelmingly final.

Malcolm was gone.

And the ship had to go on without him.

It was as simple as that.

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	12. Chapter 12: Reed

_What the bloody hell am I doing here?_

That was the primary question that was hammering through my mind as I was held down – not roughly, but very, very firmly – and tied to the wooden support holding up one side of the tent.

The chap giving the orders knew what he was doing. My wrists were tied not together but to either end of a short, stout stick – keeping them apart. Another, longer stick tied to my right wrist kept me away from the cord that secured me to the support. I had limited use of my hands for things such as eating and drinking, but no way of getting at my bonds.

If I put up a struggle before they got me secured, I reckoned I had a good chance of taking the two blokes down, and the woman … well, she was about twentyish, average face and figure, but I got the impression she was nice, even if she was a bit worried-looking. Unfortunately for me, I already knew there were other men outside, and the numbers didn't add up. There's a time for heroism, and you have to know when courage tips over into stupidity.

Plus, some bastard had nicked my boots and I was clad only in my underwear. Not optimal conditions for survival when you're up against an unknown number of people who for some reason don't like you very much, don't speak English and have bladed weapons, which they presumably know how to use.

What _was_ I doing here? How did I even _get_ here? I tried tracking back into what might possibly have happened to bring about a set of circumstances that I was absolutely positive didn't fall under the heading of 'normal', and came up with …

Nothing.

Totally, absolutely, twenty-four-carat, one hundred per cent Nothing.

Zilch, zip, zero. Nada. Dada. Not the faintest sodding idea, in other words.

You take it for granted that you remember things. It's just part of the world view, the past. Something you open like a computer file, and there it is, laid open to inspection, with all the relevant documents ready to hand.

Except that the programme had switched off.

That realisation scared me more than being tied down did. I might be able to make sense of where I was if I could remember how I'd got there.

What was I _doing_ here?

What had happened to the rest of my life?

Who _was_ I?

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	13. Chapter 13: Jessa

Although I made every effort to remain within the tent, giving Grey-Eyes what I hoped was the feeling that at least one friendly person was within hail, I could not stay in there indefinitely.

Atreh had given orders that at least two guards were to keep watch over him at all times, even though he was still bound hand and foot. I thought this excessive, but understood that he felt the weight of his responsibility keenly; the consequences for the village if this man was indeed a scout for The Others and escaped with news of its location could be absolutely catastrophic.

Kerran and Sorav had been relieved of their watch duty by Zelav and Arlay. This was not a development which I particularly welcomed. Not only were they Makia's brothers, and resembled her, but they shared her sense of humour. Moreover, I was quite sure they shared her opinion of me, which she had made clear to all the village by a thousand small, stinging comments down the years. When I reached womanhood, and during that short while when I had entertained small and foolish hopes of Atreh, she had been heard to say more than once that there were more than enough brown-eyed brats in the world already, and the Goddess knew no more were required.

It is the custom among the People that a man visits a woman's tent only when invited, but nevertheless there are many ways in which a man may make it clear such an invitation would be welcome. Strangely enough, I had never noticed any of these subtle signals being aimed in my direction, even though I am not deformed or any uglier than the average woman in the village; and maybe those remarks on the subject of there already being a sufficiency of brown-eyed brats were partly to blame…

It followed that I never had given out an invitation. The only bedfellow I had ever had was pride, but at least that had never been humbled by the insult of a refusal.

Still, the presence of Arlay and Zelav in the doorway of my tent was unsettling enough, even though they were there under orders and forbidden to enter unless danger threatened me. They watched me as often as they watched Grey-Eyes, with the same bright-eyed curiosity, and I did not think it was my imagination that there was an edge of speculative amusement in it.

So my having to leave to visit the latrine pit and fetch food was a relief in that it would remove me from their presence, at least for a while; but it was also a worry, since it would leave Grey-Eyes at their mercy, with no-one to make sure they remained where they were supposed to.

Still, I could not stay in the tent, and a glance outside revealed no-one whom I could summon on some pretext to provide a substitute presence. The two of them were still here in the village – as were a couple of the other young men – because it made no sense to leave the old and young unprotected; there are tribeless men out on the Plains, men who have been Outcast for one cause or another, and though they rarely attack a village openly, sometimes they band together and present more of a threat. We had heard no word of such, but Briai never took chances, and some presence was always left when the hunters were away.

"I will not be gone more than a few minutes," I told Grey-Eyes reassuringly, as much for the benefit of the two in the doorway as for his – though I still believed it unlikely that he really could understand what I was saying. Nevertheless, all morning I had talked to him as though I thought he could, and his refusal to respond was simply obstinacy. It was not much of a protection, but it was all I could give him.

As he had done since dawn, he simply sat quietly and watched me intently, as he watched everything, though oddly enough I did not feel half as uncomfortable beneath his steady scrutiny as I did beneath that of his two guards whom I had known from childhood.

The resemblance to Makia was greater than ever as I came closer to the brothers lounging in the doorway. They had the same fair hair and luminous blue eyes, and the same self-satisfied smiles.

"He is still a guest, until Briai decides otherwise," I said quietly.

Zelav's gaze slid past me. "A strange guest, shackled to ensure he does not leave."

"Whether or not, he is protected by the People's laws."

"Perhaps he is not one of the People, and therefore the law does not apply to him," suggested Arlay, running his thumb suggestively along the blade of his belt-knife.

"That decision is not mine to make or yours. And until it _is_ made, the law applies. Briai himself said he was to be treated fairly – those were his very words. I suggest you do not forget them." I pushed past the two of them. I think my front was brave enough, but in truth I was shaking a little as I hurried to the latrine pit and thence to the stream to wash my face and hands and draw a skin of fresh water.

Syach was drinking from one of the pools as I reached the water, and he raised his proud head to study me. For a herd stallion he had a sweet temper, and was even tolerant of children; the other tribes envied us our companionship with him, and not only for his strength and beauty. "Intercede with the God for me, Syach," I whispered to him, not even quite knowing why I said it, and he snorted and turned away to trot back to his mares.

I filled the water-skin as quickly as I could, and hurried to the _kiwa-we_. The tent was still fragrant with the smell of the morning's baking, and I appropriated a couple of loaves and some fruit, fending off a score of curious folk wanting to know all there was to know about our 'guest'. Atreh had undoubtedly issued orders that I was not to be bothered in my tent, but out of it I was fair game.

"He has said nothing. Nothing," I said obstinately.

"But he told Atreh he was from the Reed clan! Who are they? Where do they live?" The babble of questions battered at me. "Are they going to invade? Should we send messengers to the other Tribes?"

"By the Black One's balls, _shut up and let me go back to him!_ "

That worked. There was a shocked silence as I elbowed my way out of the crowd and dived back out of the _kiwa-we_. I had time to realise the magnitude of my misdemeanour as I hurried back to my tent; it was not the place of a woman of such comparatively low status as I to not only bid my betters be silent, but to use gutter-language when I did so. I could be beaten for that; but the prospect of a beating – which some of my scandalised audience would certainly demand for me, to teach me the proper respect – retreated into insignificance when I came in sight of the doorway of my tent.

Zelav and Arlay were not there.

To have simply abandoned their post would have earned them a punishment that would have been far more severe than any I could expect for my unladylike behaviour. My already fast-beating heart surged into my mouth as I dropped the bread and water and ran.

Sure enough, they had invited themselves inside on their own business with our 'guest'. But evidently things had not gone quite according to plan, for Zelav was sprawled by the fire-place as though he had been kicked there by Syach, while the sound of Arlay's fight for breath filled the tent. My shocked gaze took in the fact that Grey-Eyes' thighs were locked around Arlay's neck, his interlocked ankles giving him leverage to squeeze mercilessly inwards. Arlay was trying to prise the legs away and getting nowhere; his face was already turning blue, his eyes popping with terror.

"LefTenAnt, _no!_ " It was not that I had any objection in the general way to Arlay being deprived of breath – he would certainly not be a loss to my world – but a killing, even in self-defence, would seriously prejudice Grey-Eyes' standing as a guest.

I laid a hand on him. He was rigid with concentration on his struggling prisoner, the grey eyes a cold blaze.

I could stop him – it would be a simple enough matter to force his ankles apart – but I wanted to give him the dignity of complying. "Please, let him go. I _beg_ you!"

Many years ago, a particularly hard winter gripped the Plains. I was only a child, and have little memory of it, but one thing happened that I remember as though it were yesterday.

I had been sent to fetch water. This was not the simple task it was in the summer months, for the river near which we were camped had largely frozen over. I had to find a place where the current had kept the water free near the bank – or, if there were no such places, use the mallet I carried to hack my way through a thin part of the ice to the water beneath. I was very much afraid that there might be no thin ice near the bank at all, and that I would have to crawl out on to it, risking it breaking beneath me; certainly I would have been expected to fetch an adult rather than place myself in such danger, but even then I hated admitting to failure in anything I set out to do.

The gods were kind that day. There was a narrow spit of rock jutting out into the river, and the constant rush of the water from upstream prevented it freezing over on that side – though the quieter side downstream was a solid sheet of white. Careful that I should not slip on the frostbitten lumps of grass underfoot, I edged my way along the rock to the end, where I stared down into the narrow, deadly channel in the middle of the river, where the black water slid without a sound. Its effect on me was almost hypnotic.

Bihiv's voice behind me broke the spell. I had never heard such fear in it. _"Jessa!"_

I raised my head to call back that I was quite safe, and that he was a mother hen clucking over naught as usual.

That was when I saw the wolf.

The forest crowds close on that side of the river, and the beast must have seen or smelled me and come fast and low through the undergrowth and onto the ice. Luckily for me, the channel was just wide enough to give it pause. It had skidded to a halt directly opposite me and crouched there, gathering itself to make the spring.

Needless to say I leaped up and scrambled backwards, wailing with terror and dropping the mallet that might have been my salvation. Bihiv had no belt-knife – he was not yet old enough to carry one – but he grabbed up handfuls of frozen snow, balled them and hurled them with the best accuracy he could manage at the wolf, which for all its starved frame probably weighed as much as I did. The noise of the two of us in that silent, frost-bound landscape fetched the men of the village out, and between the hail of sharp snowballs and the clamour of angry, protective adults, the wolf came to the sensible decision that retreat was its best option. With one last famished stare at me, it turned about and vanished into the forest.

Pursuit did not discover it, and I was taken back to my mother's tent and made much of. In time the episode faded, as such episodes do, though for a while certain among the boys took pleasure in taunting me that _Jessa, the wolf is coming for you!_ There were no more sightings of wolves that winter, though we heard their hungry calls far away; and I had not thought of it for many years, until now, when the blazing grey eyes snapped to me and I stood once again on the snowy outcrop and looked death in the face.

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	14. Chapter 14: Tucker

"Who is it?"

I took a deep breath. "It's me, Hoshi. Have you got a minute?"

There was so long a pause that I started to believe I was being left outside deliberately, but then the door hissed back and Hoshi was standing in the doorway, her arms crossed defensively and a look of poorly-concealed resentment on her face. "Travis sent you, didn't he?"

"Ah…" I'm a poor liar, always have been, and this time I certainly wasn't fast enough with a denial.

"I'll kill him."

"Might pay you to run that by the cap'n first. Prob'ly wouldn't go down too well, us bein' short a helmsman 'cause you shot him out an airlock."

Apparently I'm not much of a joker either, at least nowadays. Maybe part of my sense of humor was burned up in the Xindi attack and the rest of it had fallen into that damned mine and been buried. With an apologetic shrug, I washed the sorry excuse for a smile off my face and asked, "You lettin' me in?"

"Ah, why not." She stepped backwards, turned and walked to her bunk, where she slumped more than sat down, resting her elbows on her knees and staring at the floor between her slackly dangling hands.

I picked up the chair by her computer desk, parked it a little way in front of her and straddled it, my forearms across the back support. Instead of speaking, however, I took time to study her – more closely than our normal interaction allows.

She looked tired. No, not tired: _exhausted._ Her face showed she'd been crying, and instead of being caught into its usual neat arrangement her hair looked as though it'd been put up anyhow just to keep it out of the way.

The truth hit me between the eyes just half a second before she lifted her gaze and said flatly, "I'm pregnant."

If I'd had just a few more seconds to prepare, I might have had a response ready. As it was, I just sat there gaping at her, while she looked back at me, bitter and defiant and angry.

Finally, "Are you …is this a _good_ thing?" I ventured at last, picking that at random out of the dozen questions that were whirling around in my head. 'Are you sure' was absurd enough to be insulting; it isn't the sort of thing you go around announcing to a senior officer unless you _are_ sure – damned sure.

"I don't know. You tell me." With what seemed like a sudden burst of nervous energy she got to her feet and strode to the viewing port, where she watched the speeding stars as though finding them absolutely fascinating.

"And does the…" My intelligence caught up just in time for my mouth to snap shut before the unforgivable word emerged. _Oh, no. Oh, holy crap. No. No. No._

She knew what I was going to ask, though. She looked back at me, the tears suddenly welling up and spilling over. "I never got to tell him."

I stood up so quickly the chair tipped over, unheeded, and strode over to her. At a guess, there's a couple dozen regulations that say a senior officer shouldn't hug a junior one, but I damned them all to hell and hugged her anyway.

For a few seconds she resisted, and then she sagged in my arms. "We took precautions," she sobbed. "Phlox thinks … thinks the anomalies must have affected my reproductive systems or something.

"When I found out, I couldn't imagine what he'd say. What the _captain_ would say. And as for T'Pol… "

I patted her back futilely. Time was when I'd have bet good money on what T'Pol and the captain would each have said, but strangely enough time had reversed the likely reaction of each of them. I suspected that of the two of them the Vulcan would be the most forbearing, whereas Jon … well, nowadays the cap'n didn't seem to think about anything much except insofar as it affected _the mission._ And one thing _the mission_ didn't particularly need right about then was a baby on board.

As for what the baby's father would have said, well … apart from feeling so guilty it'd be a miracle if he didn't castrate himself for plunging them into the situation in the first place, I had the weird feeling that once he'd gotten over the shock, Malcolm would've been as delighted as he was scared. That he'd have acknowledged and assumed his own responsibilities, there was no doubt at all.

But, heck … how long had this been going on? And given the Brit's devout regard for the regulations, how and when did it even _start?_

"Don't you _dare_ blame him, Trip Tucker," Hoshi said through her teeth. "He's … he _was_ human, like the rest of us. This damned Expanse, it just, it…"

 _It's askin' too much of all of us,_ I thought with infinite bitterness. Normally I could imagine that Malcolm would have resisted temptation, however deeply he felt; but this was the Expanse, and who was I to point the finger at someone who'd probably just snatched the chance of a little joy in the midst of a wilderness from which the chances were we'd never return?

Well, we never would know now what Malcolm would have thought or said at the prospect of impending and unplanned fatherhood. He was gone, dead and buried, and had never even known of Hoshi's condition.

I sighed, feeling tears pricking at my own eyes again at that realization. "I just wish things … things were easier for you right now, Hoshi."

"But they aren't." She pulled a handful of Kleenex from one of her uniform pockets and scrubbed at her face. "We're out here in the Expanse and we've got a job to do. We haven't got the time for being human and we sure haven't got the environment to raise a baby in."

I looked at her in horror. "You wouldn't…"

"…Even think of it? Of course I've thought of it." Her face twisted in anguish. "I didn't even know if he'd want it. I still don't know how I'll cope if I keep it; it's the end of my career on _Enterprise_.

"I'll be honest with you, Trip. If he was still alive, maybe things would be simpler. I could know what he thought about it, what he … but he's not. He's dead. This baby won't have a father. So it's all down to me.

"And him not being alive anymore just makes it that much harder a decision. Because now it feels like I'd be killing the only part of him that's still alive. And I loved him, Trip. I loved him and I never told him so."

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	15. Chapter 15: Jessa

He let go.

His gaze did not loose me, but his thighs relaxed, and his captive dragged in a great gasp of air and pushed himself back from their strangling grip. Arlay's first impulse was, of course, to lunge back in and lash out, but I snatched up my medicine jug and smacked him across the forehead with it so hard that it broke, drenching him in oily salve.

His need to clear the stuff from his eyes lent me just enough time to grab up a knife and slash through the cord that held Grey-Eyes' left wrist to the stick separating his hands. Zelav was coming back to himself, and I well knew that once both of them were in action, both of us were in grave danger; if I could just buy a few seconds more, that might be enough time for Grey-Eyes to free himself from the cord that held his other wrist tied fast to the tent-support.

"Bitch! You are in the pay of The Others – I will gouge your filthy brown eyes out for that!" Arlay whipped out his belt knife and advanced on me, so that I backed up, genuinely fearful that he would indeed carry out his threat. Normally it would be unthinkable, but I had seen evidence before that both of the brothers had a temper that was ungovernable once it was roused; they acted first and considered the consequences after.

Zelav staggered to his feet. Without taking his eyes from him, Grey-Eyes was tearing frantically at his bonds with his free hand, but Atreh had tied them too well; they would not yield easily.

At that moment there was a sudden beat of hooves from outside, and screaming. I had heard the approach of horsemen, but taken it for the hunting party returning; under no circumstances, however, would they gallop causelessly through the village, endangering children, and why should anyone scream?

Even Arlay was distracted enough to take his eyes from me. He darted to the tent-opening, where he froze in the same instant the back of his jacket bulged suddenly.

Then he fell backwards, stiffly, like a log, and struck the ground with a thud that seemed to shake the tent. For an instant I simply could not make sense of the thing that jutted upwards like a stick from his chest.

Zelav ran to him, and seized the throw-spear as though to pull it free before better sense came to him. His face turned to me, distorted and desperate. "Help him! Help him!"

Help the man who seconds earlier had been threatening to gouge my eyes out. Ai, Mother of Mares! The logic of men!

But still, eyeless or not, I am a Healer. I took a step towards him, but Grey-Eyes seized me by the wrist. Naturally I did not understand what he said, but his meaning was clear enough by the direction of his hot gaze and the jerk of his still imprisoned right hand.

I was still holding my knife.

I was already forsworn. Sometimes one simply has to go with one's instincts.

The knife passed from hand to hand. It was not a belt knife such as men wear; it was just the knife that I used to chop up the ingredients for my medicines. But I keep it sharp, and it made short work of the leather strap holding him to the tethering-stick and then of the stick still dangling uselessly from his other wrist.

Grey-Eyes was free, and armed…

"Do not betray me, I beg you," I said, holding his piercing grey eyes.

He cast one burning glance at Zelav, still crouching over his fallen brother, and then darted to the tent-flap. He looked out with the appropriate care, and then took his chance, slipped outside and was lost to view.

A true warrior would have left me to do my job, but Zelav had eyes and thoughts for nothing but Arlay. He grabbed me by the hair as I knelt down, and hissed into my face that if I let his brother die my own life would be forfeit.

 _Let_ him die? Mother of Mares, he was already dead; the miracle was that he was still breathing. The spear had passed right through him, and the tip buried itself in the ground as he fell backwards. He was now impaled on it, and I could guess all too easily that it was only the shaft that was keeping him alive. He would live a little longer, if it stayed where it was; as soon as I removed it, his life would come with it.

Zelav knew this, he must know it, but he was choosing to blame me for the inevitable.

I wrenched myself free of his grip and busied myself tearing a blanket into pieces, which I packed around the wound in an effort to stem the bleeding. In truth, there was not much yet; not half as much as there would be shortly… but the cloth must be placed in position for me to press it down and try to pack the hole, if by any faint chance he survived the removal of the weapon from it.

The blade had come out through the other side. Two wounds, two sites for infection, and what surely must be massive internal damage; a stronger man than Zelav would simply have pulled out the spear and sent his brother mercifully on his way. As it was, he alternated between pleading with Arlay not to die and threatening me with the fate I would suffer if he did.

The weight of the butt-end of the spear was accentuating the back-and-forth movement of the shaft and blade with Arlay's breathing, doing more damage with every breath he drew. Fortunately he seemed to be already halfway across the Bridge to the Eternal Grazing Lands, so that at least we did not have to contend with his consciousness, which would have been an unendurable agony.

When at last I was ready, I took a firm hold of the shaft of the spear, just where it jutted from Arlay's breast. "Break it," I ordered Zelav. "Above my hands. As close to them as you can." At least, if we could achieve that much, we could stop that additional pressure on the wound as it swayed to and fro, and the shorter length would be far easier for me to draw out steadily and under good control.

"What?"

"Break it!" I yelled. "It is making the wound worse every time he breathes." Not that there was much movement by then; his steps were growing further and further away with every second.

There was more shouting outside, more sounds of horses, more screaming. I told Zelav he should not be here, he should be outside protecting the village, but he would not go. He called me a she-devil and accused me of trying to make him leave so that I could finish what the evil spirits I had summoned had started. Too angry and frightened to mind my words, I told him that men, not spirits, kill with spears; and that if he was a man rather than a shadow he would do as I ordered – if he did not want his brother to die before our eyes.

He was very strong. I watched his knuckles whiten to the colour of bone as he tried again and again to break the spear, but it was seasoned wood, and old.

He heaved on it, using all his strength. Still it would not bend, let alone break.

For all my struggles to hold the cursed thing still, I could not succeed completely. Some convulsion of pain must have reached Arlay somehow, for he cried out suddenly, a high, thin, almost bewildered sound; then his body convulsed once before it sagged back down, and the rattle of his indrawn breath told that there was no longer any reason at all why the spear should not be pulled forth, releasing whatever remained of his spirit to complete its journey.

 _"You killed him!"_

I saw the blow coming but could not dodge it. His fist hit the side of my face, and the world went out.

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	16. Chapter 16: T'Pol

I was going through the latest reports with the captain in his Ready Room when the chime rang unexpectedly.

He frowned slightly, clearly not pleased by the interruption. However, he had standing orders in place that he was to be informed of any development that might affect the mission, so he hesitated only for a fraction of a section before issuing the command to admit whoever was outside.

I suspected that both of us were surprised to see Major Hayes. Although he was now Head of Security on the ship, he rarely visited the Bridge, and the Tactical Station was being manned by Ensign Müller according to his standard orders.

"Major...?" Captain Archer looked nonplussed. "Is there a problem?"

Major Hayes came to 'parade rest' in front of the desk. "I don't know, sir," he said – his tone unusually troubled for a man who usually spoke and acted with decision. "I'd like to ask you a question."

The captain raised his brows at me.

I had sufficient acquaintance with the major by that time to believe that he would not have requested such a meeting unless the matter was urgent. The reports would wait.

I rose to my feet. "I will be at the Command Center when you are finished, Captain," I said.

"No, Ma'am, wait please. I'd value your opinion," Major Hayes said quickly.

I made no sign, but sat down again as the captain nodded permission.

It appeared that the major was unsure of how to begin. This again was unlike him. Finally he drew a deep breath and plunged into the heart of the matter. "Captain, it's about Lieutenant Reed."

The funeral service was scheduled for that evening at eighteen hundred hours.

The captain nodded silently for him to continue.

I anticipated a request to be allowed to speak during the service, but what followed was unexpected - and startling. "I've been wondering, sir. …Did we give up on him too easily?"

It was clear that the captain had not been expecting a question like this. Moreover, he was insulted by it; his lips compressed into a thin line.

"I didn't hear you raising any doubts about it at the time, Major," he said harshly.

"With respect, sir," I intervened. "If an officer has doubts, it is his duty to raise them, however late they may be."

That was also unwelcome, but he could hardly dispute it. I watched him with some disquiet; the pressure of our mission was affecting him, and not for the better.

"So what are you saying?" he demanded. "You think he could still have been alive? And we abandoned him?"

Major Hayes shook his head vehemently. "No, sir. I don't think we 'abandoned' him. At the time it was the only logical thing to do. The scanners couldn't find him. When there were no biosigns – it was obvious."

The captain fairly glared at him. "So what's made you change your mind?"

"I'm not sure, sir." He looked at me, and there was a glint of rueful humor that acknowledged what a Vulcan would undoubtedly make of what he was about to say; but nevertheless he squared his shoulders and faced his commanding officer without flinching. "I guess you'd call it – a gut feeling."

"A _gut feeling_?" Captain Archer's chair squealed on the deck plating as he thrust it backward. "You're seriously suggesting we turn this ship around and go all that way back looking for a dead man because you've got a _gut feeling?_ "

The major showed no sign of being intimidated. "It's just another term for an instinct, sir. And my instincts have saved my life before now."

"Pity Reed didn't have any, then," was the snapped reply. "Or he might have gotten out of the way in time."

My disquiet deepened. It was flippant and, worse, it was cruelly unjust to an officer who had served the ship loyally and lost his life in the performance of his duties.

Even the captain seemed to realize this, for after a moment he pressed a hand to his forehead. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'm not…" _not sleeping well_ , I thought. I had already discussed with Phlox the way the Expanse was affecting the officers and crew, and that morning the captain had appeared almost haggard at breakfast.

"Sir," Major Hayes pressed gently, "it wouldn't take long. A couple of days… We could take down lifting equipment…"

I thought for a moment that Captain Archer was wavering. But his face hardened again. "In those couple of days, the Xindi could have launched that damned weapon. We haven't got the time to waste on wild-goose chases, Major. Your job's to get the ship and crew ready to fight when we finally find the enemy, not to let your imagination run away with you."

"Sir." He was far too experienced not to know exactly when to stop. He straightened up, saluted and apologized for wasting his CO's time, and then he left the Ready Room.

I watched him go.

Vulcans do not indulge in 'gut feelings', and certainly logic dictated that we had done the only reasonable thing in accepting the verdict of the ship's scanning equipment. Nevertheless, I confessed to myself that a part of me was sympathetic to the major's strange suggestion. The scanners are normally capable of detecting bio-signs even below considerable depths of rock, but they had found nothing. Not the faintest trace of the vanished lieutenant.

The look on Captain Archer's face as he drew his chair back in to the desk said as clearly as any words, however, that the subject was closed.

It was my duty to support him, and I would continue to do so. But I thought once again that the Expanse was changing him for the worse, and for the first time I began to wonder if Ambassador Soval had been completely in the wrong when he believed him the wrong person to have charge of a starship on a mission of such importance.

It was not a reassuring concept.

* * *

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	17. Chapter 17: Reed

_Bloody hell, the situations I get myself into…_

I wasn't quite sure why I was so certain that finding myself in difficult situations was something I did on a fairly regular basis, but the wry thought that crossed my mind as I ducked out of the tent seemed fairly appropriate for some reason.

The area outside seemed to be – however temporarily – deserted, which was lucky for me I thought, in view of the fact that there were some damnably unfriendly people around 'this here neck of the woods'. The phrase ran through my mind with an odd accent, that just for an instant sounded weirdly familiar… but I definitely hadn't time to chase down peculiar wisps of thought, however teasing they might be.

Now the first and most obvious idea was to grab some transport and get the hell out of here. Unfortunately, I wasn't sure where I should get out _to_ , or what I was going to do if and when I succeeded in getting there. I stared right and then left, and no inspiration presented itself. An empty landscape spread in all directions: no trees, no cover, nothing but the certain prospect of being seen, chased and – in all probability – caught and killed. What's the point of escaping, if your last state ends up worse than your first?

So, Plan A had to be regretfully abandoned. _Come on, man, come up with a Plan B!_

Plan B seemed to start with avoiding the fate that had overtaken that bastard back in the tent, as some scruffy bloke with a scraggly beard and a bad haircut was riding his horse hell-for-leather between the tents and caught a glimpse of me. He swung the poor brute around so hard I actually thought it'd fall to its knees, but unfortunately it recovered, and he rode it straight at me, taking aim with the spear he was carrying.

I didn't bother watching the spear; that's an amateur's mistake, and it's usually his last. I watched his eyes, and they told me the instant he was going to throw.

Fortunately, whoever I was, I'd got good reflexes. It didn't miss me by much, but it missed me, and that was the important thing. My body seemed to know what it was doing (which was a damn good thing, because I sure as hell didn't), and as I rolled upright I found the knife was flying out of my hand towards his unprotected back.

I suppose it was bloody stupid to think _that wasn't very sporting of me_ , but whyever I thought it, I definitely felt an unsporting sense of triumph as he jerked forward, clearly hit and damaged. It wasn't that big a knife, but the blade only has to go in a few inches in the right place and the job's done. And to make his world even worse, he now hadn't got a spear – whereas a little scramble, and I had.

He got the horse around again, but by that time he'd weighed up the change in the situation. He yelled something at me that was probably an uncomplimentary reference to my mother's preference for highly temporary relationships at the time of my conception – I've heard that kind of insult often enough to know what it sounds like – and went to look for someone minus a spear and an attitude. The way he was hunched over the horse's neck suggested my little knife hadn't done him any particular good; I was sorry to lose it, but on the other hand I'd got a spear in exchange, which was a bloody decent trade if you asked me.

Not that anyone _was_ asking me, because there didn't seem to be anyone else in view for just the moment, though there was still screaming going on somewhere. But a few seconds later there was another beat of hooves, and the sound of someone running.

Two someones. A woman, oldish, the print of terror on her face, and a chap pushing her along. He looked familiar, and I recognized the very man who'd tied me up. _Bad_ development. Only good thing was, he didn't seem to be armed.

But the horseman in pursuit of the both of them was worse. Another bloke having a bad hair day, and he had a sword – pulled back and ready to use.

I had the spear, but they were between him and me. And somehow I knew that I really was not very good with spears. I pulled back into what seemed like the right posture for some reason (why did the word _javelin_ run through my mind? Had I learned, somewhere, how to throw a javelin?), but I knew I wasn't nearly good enough for that kind of a gamble.

OK. Plan C. I shouted to the two of them to duck and threw it, awkwardly, in a slightly different way. My aim wasn't quite as good as I'd hoped it would be, which pissed me off royally, but it went where I wanted it to, in a _general_ sort of way.

How it missed the woman I'll never know. Anyway, luckily for me it did. And unfortunately for the horse, its four legs suddenly encountered something they weren't counting on and couldn't quite work out how to deal with in the time available.

Well, obviously I was sorry for it, though the bloke's face as he was catapulted over its head was priceless. He hit the ground and I think something broke, but whatever it was he didn't have time to get up again, because the youngster wrenched his sword out of his hand and practically hacked his head off with it.

The woman was having hysterics, and I couldn't blame her all that much – my own stomach was heaving a bit.

"'S all right, love, could be worse," was all I could think of to say as I patted her on the shoulders. Well, OK, it probably couldn't, but as she probably didn't speak English it didn't matter all that much.

The horse got itself up. Shaken, but not apparently stirred. Or something. The youngster got hold of its rein and looked hard at me.

Weird, how you notice how _sharp_ a sword looks at close quarters.

There was a bit of a pause, which probably didn't go on as long as it felt like it did. Then he picked the spear up and threw it back to me. _To_ , rather than _at_. Which was a definite relief. And he was undoubtedly a heck of a lot better at throwing spears the way he wanted to than I was.

I'm not sure how we arrived at the idea that we were going to work together. I reflected as we set off – him on the horse, me running alongside it – that it wasn't usually me running round the ship in my underwear trying to avert a crisis.

…Ship? What bloody ship? There wasn't a ship in sight.

But I didn't have much time to worry about what the hell ship I'd been mithering about, because fairly shortly we were engaged in some pretty dirty fighting. Luckily there weren't that many of them, and even more luckily the kid I was fighting with seemed to know how to fight on horseback; I took somebody out with the spear before a couple of the enemy on foot decided I was only small and wouldn't take much handling. They learned the error of that assumption fairly quickly – I got the impression that none of them had encountered martial arts before, because they were ridiculously easy to take down – but we were still badly outnumbered. Even though I'd managed to rearm myself from my victims I doubt if we'd have survived very much longer if a couple of elderly chaps hadn't suddenly barged in from the side on horses, providing handy reinforcements just when they were needed.

For a couple of minutes the struggle was pretty even. Then, unexpectedly, a couple of public-spirited women waded in as well. They didn't have what you'd call weapons, but they had things they could whack horses with, and that seemed to work pretty nicely, though again it was rough luck on the horses. At any rate, it seemed to tip the balance. One minute I was poking at some ugly bastard's face with my trusty spear, and the next the whole bunch of them had turned tail and were heading for the horizon, and by some incredible set of circumstances I was still alive to wave them farewell.

This was so surprising that for a couple of minutes I felt downright shaky around the knees. Adrenaline will carry you while the fight's on, but when it's all over the reaction can be a right bitch. In a weird sort of way I'd been having an absolute whale of a time while an assortment of ill-natured gits were trying to carve pieces out of me, but as soon as it was over I remembered that I had an absolute shite of a headache and it felt like my left thigh had taken a smack at some point that might have broken the bone in it if it'd landed squarely.

(That said, if it'd landed a handspan further up and to the right, any possibility of future descendants would have gone right out the window, along with my amorous prospects for the foreseeable future. So on the whole, I was grateful for small mercies. I didn't remember how I'd got it, but things could have been a _whole_ lot worse.…)

For just a few seconds the ground and I had a discussion about whether or not we were going to have a close encounter of the falling-down kind. For some reason I felt that normally this wouldn't be a reaction I'd have, but the pain in my head was so bad by then I thought I was going to puke.

Then I remembered what had been going on back in the tent I'd woken up in.

The kid was trying to say something to me, but quite apart from the fact I couldn't understand a word he was saying, I now had other things on my mind. If that nice lass hadn't had the presence of mind to cut me loose, I'd have been toast by now – the initial kick I'd got in had taken one of my assailants by surprise, but now the remaining one knew what I could do. He wouldn't have been taken by surprise again; he'd have picked me off from a safe distance. Presumably other spears would be available, or bows and arrows. Bit of target practice, that sort of thing.

Cold fear clutched at my guts. She'd let me go. He wouldn't forgive her for that.

Or maybe one of the attackers had got into the tent after I'd left it. I hadn't seen anyone being carried away when they fled, but maybe they hadn't been interested in taking prisoners.

I pulled away from the hands that tried to detain me, and staggered back towards the tent – I thought I knew sort of which direction it was in. Most of the tents looked pretty well the same, so I couldn't be absolutely sure. The fact that the whole world seemed to be dipping and swaying around me didn't help much either.

The kid had given up trying to talk to me. Now he was trying to stop me falling flat on my face, which I'd have appreciated more if he hadn't also been slowing me down. "Bugger off!" I yelled at him, waving wildly in more or less the direction I was trying to go (and failing miserably). "Girl! Help!"

I'll give him points, he caught on quickly. He shouted at someone behind us and took off, and I saw him dart into the tent. At which point my foot had an argument with a tussock of grass and I finally _did_ fall flat on my face. Couldn't even manage to break my fall. Banged my nose so hard I thought I'd broken it, and would have just lain there moaning like a Saturday night drunk, but for the thought of what might be going on in that bloody tent. The kid was as brave as they come, but that other bloke was vicious; I'd weighed him up from the start, while the two of them were waiting to get their chance at me.

More hooves. _Oh fuck, they're coming back. Must have just been regrouping._

Shouting. Had to get up, had to take charge, had to put some kind of a plan together. Organise resistance. Protect the ship… sodding hell, I was off about that ship again!

With what felt like a superhuman effort I got myself up on my hands and knees. Despite the pain, out of nowhere a tide of savagery crashed over me as I did so; I think I actually snarled, and the accompanying burst of fresh adrenaline propelled me to my feet. For reasons entirely unknown, my right hand kept scrabbling at my hip as if expecting something to be there; something that should have fitted into my hand, comfortable and familiar and reassuring… I could feel it, I could almost see it, but I didn't know what it was.

It didn't matter. I was running, and the sound of horses catching me up was too far away from the core of my consciousness for me to recognise it for the threat it was, and react to it.

I never did reach the tent.

The horsemen reached me first.


	18. Chapter 18: Tucker

Funerals.

Never did like 'em (not that I know anyone who actually does, I suppose), but it'd always been in the back of our minds that out here in the Expanse it'd be something we'd have to face and deal with, probably a whole lot more than once.

But this one ….

Well, yeah, I guess it was always on the cards – well up towards the top of the stack if I'm honest. We'd talked about it sometimes, and he was always upfront about being willing to die if that was what it took to safeguard the ship or the crew. Sometimes I could cope with it okay and sometimes it freaked me out a little – he seemed to regard himself as being of so little value compared to anyone else. Like he was only there to make sure everyone else was safe, and that was it.

I think I could have coped with his death better if …. if it had _achieved_ anything. If he'd saved someone, done something that justified dying. Sometimes I thought there was a lot of that guy Antonius Block in Malcolm; I played _The Seventh Seal_ once at Movie Night (no, I didn't always go for the romcoms or the action movies!), and he sat through it without a single fidget, which was practically unheard-of for someone who always had at least half his mind on the latest weapons reports or some kind of tinkering he could be doing in the Armory. I remember I'd planned to kid him about it afterwards, but something in that total stillness told me he really wouldn't be happy if I did. If I'm honest I found it a little unnerving. Maybe that was one of the reasons why I never spoke to him about it; I had the feeling he might say something I really, really wouldn't want to hear.

Anyhow, whether I could cope with it or not, this was the day it all came to an end, finally and forever. The day we said goodbye to Malcolm Reed, the guy who'd done so much to keep us all safe over all the god-knows-how-many light years we'd traveled. The day I had to find something to say about him and somehow get it said without breaking down, because I knew how much he'd cared about _conduct befitting an officer_ and I wanted to think he'd have been proud of me.

Malcolm Reed. The quiet little guy who'd been brave enough and dumb enough to try to talk to me about Lizzie's memorial, and now here I was walking to his; another damn farewell with not even a body to accord some kind of reverence. Still, the fact he'd been willing to press me about it was kind of an indication that he thought memorials were important, so I guessed it would matter to him that I was there.

The Armory doors appeared in front of me. I wasn't even sure how I'd gotten there; I sure hadn't planned it. I remembered something about my chronometer pinging, and that was about it.

My hands smoothed down my dress uniform. I didn't remember getting into that, either.

The doors opened with a sound that was somehow different to what I remembered, like I was hearing it through cotton balls in my ears.

The captain was there already, standing stiffly by the launch control platform. He was also in dress uniform. His face was a mask, as if someone had carved it out of duranium, and his eyes were fixed on the open torpedo casing already resting on the tracks along which it would be hurled into space when we were done.

Its sides were so highly polished, there can't have been as much as a single fingerprint on them. And of course it was empty. The access panel that would normally open on the torpedo's arming mechanism displayed not a body, but just an immaculately folded uniform lying inside it. The two rank pips on it gleamed. If we got the job done and made it home in one piece, the captain 'd surely have recommended him for a promotion if he'd still been with us, like a few others I could think of whose devoted service 'above and beyond' deserved some kind of recognition. _Lieutenant Commander Reed._ I think he'd have liked the sound of that.

T'Pol was standing behind the captain, just to his right. She was wearing her Vulcan composure like a cloak, but more and more these days all I could see was how beautiful she was. Maybe even more so, now that the Expanse had torn off a bit of her shell of invincibility, and sometimes she looked like someone who actually had feelings. Hell, not the sort of feelings I'd daydreamed about now and then, and especially not towards me, but she'd come a long way from the Ice Princess she was in the early days, when I think it was all Jon could do not to shove her out the nearest airlock.

Hayes was behind him, just to his left. Right behind him again were Müller and McKenzie; I supposed they were representing the two sides of Security.

Hoshi and Travis were on the other side. I was glad to see Travis standing so close to her, even though both of them were stiff and straight. Hoshi's face looked as though it had been painted onto a wax doll; only her eyes had any life, staring fixedly at those two shining rank pips.

I still didn't know what she'd decided to do about the baby. Or even if she'd done it already. Phlox wouldn't let on; patient confidentiality, and all.

I think Travis had the situation sussed all right. But he wouldn't say anything.

My legs took me to the end of the launch track and the control box set up there. I'd been his senior officer. It was my duty to do the final honors.

The panel had just one button on it. It was wired to be simplicity itself. One button, and all the complex operations involved in the propulsion system and the launch doors and targeting sensors would all happen. There was a blue giant star not so far away _('That blue giant, we may have gone by it. I'm not sure.')_. I thought he'd have preferred that as an ending – burning up, quick and clean, a tiny bright shooting star somewhere in the middle of all that colossal energy. Better than what we'd left him to … rotting slowly in the dark on that wandering world, wherever in all the universe its path eventually took it.

I'd have thought, if I'd have thought about it at all, that I'd be coming apart by now. That it would all be just too much to bear, on top of Lizzie; too much, that I had to talk about him and listen to other people talk about him and then, when everyone had finally had their say, press that goddamn button that was now staring upwards at me like a blind white eye from that polished metal rectangle. The button that would finally, absolutely, be the end of a friendship that had come to mean more than practically any other I'd ever had in my life.

I hadn't thought about it. And in the end, it didn't mean anything that I hadn't thought about it.

Because someone else's voice spoke from the person who used to be Charles Tucker III, and listened to other people say things that went in one ear and out the other without making a stop anywhere in the middle, and I didn't hear a single goddamn word of any of it. And the finger that pressed the button wasn't mine, and I watched the now closed and sealed torpedo rush into the launch tube and disappear, and I felt absolutely nothing.

It was all totally

absolutely

meaningless.


	19. Chapter 19: Reed

Waking up the second time was a lot better than the first.

I wasn't being sick, for one thing. Though the headache hadn't improved much, probably because the last thing I seemed to remember was something hitting me hard in the back, knocking me forward for my face to have another interview with the ground – an encounter which effectively ended my participation in events, at least for the time being. The ache in my nose suggested I hadn't been too successful at protecting it that time, either.

The one _huge_ improvement was the view.

Bloody hell. Trip Tucker, eat your heart out.

…. Who the sodding hell was Trip Tucker?

…But that was unimportant, just for the moment. She was absolutely gorgeous. Long, blonde, wavy hair, eyes like midsummer midday skies, and a figure to die for. And since she was currently leaning over me, the front of her dress provided me a view almost down to her navel. Not that I could see down very far, because the further distance was blocked in a _totally_ delightful way. If I was suffocated by those, I wouldn't even ask for oxygen….

But after a few seconds, the front part of my brain caught up with the back part. Her eyes might be blue, but they were colder than a cold snap on Andoria's North Pole in apogee. At a guess, the view further south (however delectable) was just an unintentional side-effect of her close examination of my carotid artery with a view to interrupting its efficient operation. Fortunately she wasn't alone, or I suspected there might already have been a disruption in services.

There was apparently an argument going on. I didn't have to speak the language to know that she wasn't running for president of my fan club, but happily for me her views didn't seem to have much support. There was a considerably older chap now present who was undoubtedly in charge, and he listened to her with the sort of forbearance that's hiding a lot of anger, his arms folded across his barrel chest.

Midway through what was presumably a diatribe on my real and imagined sins, the kid appeared. Well, I'd been referring to him in my mind as 'the kid', but he was older than I'd thought, now I came to look closely: probably early twenties, and it didn't take a DNA test to determine who his dad was. He didn't interrupt, just stopped and listened, his face stony. I noticed he didn't look at her often; most of the time he stared at the ground, and once or twice he glanced at me. When he noticed I was awake, he gave a little nod, but still didn't say anything.

Trying not to move my head more than I absolutely had to, I tried to get a handle on where I was and who was around me. I was back in the tent – at least I was back in _a_ tent, because there were too many people around me for any identifying items to be visible – but try as I might, I couldn't see the lass who'd treated me. Apart from the pretty girl who had sinister designs on my carotid artery for some reason, they were all men.

They could have been mistaken for humans, but for the faint dappling of what looked like cloudy leopard-spots along their cheekbones. Some had quite a number, others had only a handful, but to me just then it was just an indicator that wherever I was, it wasn't Earth.

I should be so lucky.

At least I wasn't tied. I was lying on what seemed to be a heap of furs, with another one on top of me. Very luxurious furs they were too, if a bit hot for the weather. I had a singularly inappropriate visual of Hoshi, posing on one wearing nothing at…

 _Get a grip, who the fuck is this Hoshi you're thinking about now?_

But whoever she was – the teasing memory of an Asian beauty slipped away from me, as tantalising as a wisp of lace in a burlesque dancer's groin – then this damn well wasn't the time or the place to be thinking of her, interesting poses notwithstanding.

I forced my thoughts back to what was being said. Though as none of it was, of course, in English, this was not a particularly rewarding pursuit. You can get a lot of information from tone and body posture, though, and on the whole I thought my current situation looked more hopeful than it had done before. Gorgeous-But-Unaccountably-Unfriendly was definitely Counsel for the Prosecution, but the judge wasn't having any of it. Presumably Counsel for the Defence (whoever they were) had put their case before I woke up, and the evidence presented must have been pretty irrefutable.

It occurred to me with a touch of hysteria – and completely out of nowhere – that the oldish chap bore more than a passing resemblance to my Uncle Alastair, who'd achieved his lifelong ambition of making it to a seat on the King's Bench exactly a month before succumbing to a fatal heart attack at his club. Admittedly it was enough to give my imagination a seizure picturing old Alastair wearing clothes that had been put together out of worked hides, but there was the same unmistakable air of _gravitas,_ even minus the wig; and oddly enough, I thought that at some subliminal level, Alastair himself wouldn't have been entirely displeased by the comparison.

Whoever Uncle Alastair actually _was_ , because I couldn't have said if my life depended on it.

The argument seemed to go on for quite a long time. GBUU's voice got gradually louder ( _'The first one to shout has lost the argument,'_ memory whispered, increasing my optimism further, however hard I tried to squash it) but Uncle Alastair's spiritual brother-in-arms still wasn't impressed, and I got the definite feeling that the men around him weren't pleased either – whether by what she was saying or by the way she'd started yelling, I had no way of knowing. More importantly, though, I still couldn't catch sight of the other one, the nice one, and my worry quotient on that score was ratcheting up at speed.

He heard her out, but although by the end she was fairly howling at him, none of it made any difference. He replied with one short, sharp sentence, glanced at me, and then turned and walked out of the tent, with most of the men following him.

Only the kid and GBUU were left, facing each other across me.

I'd heard the phrase 'tingling silence' but I'd never been directly underneath one before – at least, not as far as I could remember. The two of them glared at each other, both evidently waiting for the other to speak first.

With a sudden sinking of the heart, I recognised the postures. Me and …Deborah. Oh yes, I suddenly remembered Deborah. One of the 'tumultuous' phases of our _very_ brief relationship. She had a smile that would make your heart stop, but by the end it was almost a relief when I found out it was now being turned in the direction of a college footballer with shoulders in directly inverse proportion to his IQ.

('Football'. A game which principally involves people running about _carrying_ the bloody ball, when they're not throwing the damn thing. Hardly a kick in sight, so where they got the 'foot' part of it, well, you tell me. *Sigh*… No wonder the Vulcans accuse us of being illogical, they probably never got over that one for a start. If they'd landed in London instead, our whole relationship might have been so much different… but no, they had to land in sodding Montana.

 _'Well, I don't recall any Europeans figurin' out how to build a warp engine…'_ )

… Bloody hell, couldn't I pack in wandering off in the most ridiculous directions at the most inappropriate moments? Who were the Vulcans, when they were at home? Was I getting mixed up with the Russians? That chap from _The Hunt for Red October_ had a thing about going to Montana….

And who the heck had I had that stupid conversation with anyway?

I could practically have started a countdown, I was so sure of what would happen next. And sure enough, it did. My cynical, post-Deborah self almost burst into applause when the sparkling tears started sliding down her cheeks and her luscious mouth collapsed into a trembling picture of grief-stricken indignation. And (just to add extra local colour and catch the attention of any local testosterone) her breasts heaved so dramatically it made me seasick just looking at them.

He _had_ to fall for that. God knows I'd done it often enough, at least until I learned to recognise crocodile tears when I saw them – and right now, I'd have bet my Aunt Matilda's knickers there was a set of dentures with a bite force of 3,700 psi behind this lot.

But miracles apparently do happen – or else he'd been over the same roller-coaster I had with Deborah, and finally got motion sickness. He didn't melt, as I feared he would; on the contrary, he stepped back, whirled around and pointed accusingly at another heap of furs, which I hadn't noticed up till now. Or rather, at the person lying in it – someone apparently unconscious, because no sleeper could possibly have slept through the racket that had been going on in here.

She was alive, at any rate – I could see the furs shifting as she breathed. But the side of her face that was nearest me was one gigantic bruise, and I could only imagine what other injuries she'd suffered.

I tried to sit up. I'd tear his fucking head off and beat him to death with it. I'd rip his bollocks off and serve them to him deep-fried with onions. I'd…

Well, I apparently wasn't going to do anything _straight away._ The kid saw me sit up and immediately pressed me down again; if the state of my stomach was anything to go by I was probably an interesting shade of green around the gills. Evidently I'd been a bit over-optimistic on the 'not feeling sick' front.

GBUU spat like an infuriated kitten and stomped out of the tent. I'd have waved her on her way, but I was having one of those moments where you absolutely _don't_ do anything you don't really, really have to. As the world spun around me I'd even have been grateful to see Phlox…

 _Flocks? Flocks of what, bloody sheep? What good would a flock of sheep be, I ask you?_

I was getting _worse._

The kid squatted down beside me. His blue eyes were searching, but kind. He wasn't bad-looking: curly brown hair pulled into the standard ponytail, slightly Roman nose, pierced ears with loops of gold in them, very broad shoulders atop a muscular torso – he'd be formidable in a fist-fight. He picked up a leather bottle from the ground and held it out to me – and, presumably just in case I might wonder, took a swig from it first.

After that, asking questions about the vintage would have been downright ill-bred. I put the neck of the bottle to my own mouth and took a swig as well.

I stopped coughing about five minutes later. I flatter myself I can handle a decent Scotch, but that stuff must have been fermented for about forty years in the bowels of a temperamental volcano.

By the time I'd wiped the tears from my eyes – and noticed the bastard was grinning, even if he did tactfully wipe the smile off his face as soon as he realised I could actually see him again – I wasn't feeling sick any more, and the world had stopped whirling like a Sufi dancer.

"Thanks," I mumbled, hoping that speech wouldn't set me off coughing again. Luckily, it didn't, and I cleared my throat. I know it's a farcical British belief that foreigners/aliens will actually understand you if you speak the King's English very, very slowly and loudly, but I had to say _something_ , and I suspected that the fund of highly imaginative Spanish obscenities I'd learned from Em wouldn't–

I stopped again. It was such a weird feeling: a bit like floating in the sea, and feeling the unseen pressure moving you as each wave rolls in. And the waves were pushing me somewhere, and I didn't know where to…

"Girl," I said, pointing at her.

"Jessa," he said. Then he pointed at me. "LefTenAnt."

He was speaking _English?_ I blinked at him, and another wave went past, leaving me scrabbling for a foothold. "No," I croaked, finding one somehow in the turbulence, and shaking my head – carefully – as I repeated the word, to emphasise its meaning. " _Malcolm._ "

I hadn't a clue where that had come from, but it was sort of comforting to know what my name was. At least it was somewhere to start.

He put his head on one side, his expression quizzical. "LefTenAnt Malcolm?"

I didn't want to think about it any more. "Jessa." I pointed at her again, and did my best to look anxiously enquiring; thank the Lord for non-verbal communication.

He said something. His expression was unmistakably worried, and he smoothed down the top fur on her bed, though I was more relieved than I cared to admit to myself that he didn't take her hand or anything. Not that it would have been any of my damned business if he had.

We set out on trying to exchange information. It soon became painfully clear that the process was going to be not only slow, but fraught with misunderstandings. In a very short while I found myself thinking nostalgically that I'd never understood how much bother Hoshi's wonderful UT system had saved us–

UT. U-T. Universal Translator. And there was 'Hoshi' again. She designed a Universal Translator, as well as having the most beautiful–

Yes. Well. It appeared that Hoshi had a singularly unfortunate effect on my libido, even if I couldn't remember for the life of me who she was.

I recalled my wandering thoughts yet again; this was _serious_ , and tipping over into near-hysteria – I seemed to be constantly on the edge of it – was damned unprofessional behaviour for a Starfleet officer–

 _Starfleet officer, Lieutenant Malcolm –_

I wound my hands in the furs, trying to stop them shaking. I needed writing implements, a pen, paper, anything – a PADD for preference–

We established the verb for 'eat'. I probably didn't pronounce it very well, but I was resigning myself to the fact that talking was going to involve a lot of pantomiming to go with it. And 'Charades' never had been my favourite game. That had been Battleships; Aunt Sherrie had bought me one for Christmas that made real noises, except we could only play with it when we went to her house, because Father didn't …

This time pulling myself back to reality was a relief. My heart was pounding in a rather sickening way, and my new friend was looking at me with concern.

I couldn't go on just calling him 'kid'; for one thing, he hadn't been one for some time, and for another it was not a term that would have been approved of in the Reed household, where correct usage of strictly Oxford English was the norm.

I wasn't so much being lifted by the waves now; I was being pounded by them.

I pointed again. "Malcolm. Jessa."

He smiled. "Atreh."

He got to his feet. I suppose I must have looked a bit panicky, because he leaned down and patted me on the shoulder before he mimed 'go' and 'food' and 'back'. Then he walked to the tent-flap.

There were no guards there now. He paused, looked back at Jessa and then at me, and then he left.

I was still unbound. And on my own.


	20. Chapter 20: Jessa

I heard voices.

One was familiar, and my first instinctive tensing eased when I heard the smile in it. If Atreh was here, and well, and amused, then nothing could be so very bad after all.

Automatically I glanced over at the other side of the tent, and then blinked, not sure if I was dreaming.

Atreh and Grey-Eyes were sitting opposite each other on the furs, taking turns to eat from a bowl of cooked goats' meat and rice. They were comfortably cross-legged, and their whole posture said that they were relaxed in each other's company.

As far as I could see, Grey-Eyes was not bound in any way. He had been given clothes, the same sort as all the village men wear, and was apparently trying to learn our language. This was why Atreh was laughing, for he was not very good at it.

The tent flap was pinned open, and bright morning sunshine was streaming in. I could even hear the song of a skylark.

I must have dreamed, during the night. I dreamed that Grey-Eyes had been sitting alone beside me, his hand quiet and gentle on my hair, soothing me back to sleep…

But of course, that could only have been a dream.

I opened my mouth to speak, and at once – as the sickening pain hit me – so did the memories of yesterday. Or was it the day before?

By the Mother's mercy, most of them were vague. I remembered the blow well enough, but much of what had followed after was blurred. I soon discovered that Zelav's retribution would involve doing to me in hate what no man had done to me for joy, and after that his hands would end me…

I was too stupid, too proud, too frightened to submit. I fought, and made matters worse. He battered me, crying that when he had done with me I would follow his brother to the Eternal Grazing Lands to be his slave for eternity…

I must have made some noise, for both the men's heads jerked up and they were no longer smiling.

They both scrambled across the tent and kneeled beside me.

"I am sorry, little maid." Atreh leaned across and gently touched his forehead to mine. "I should have foreseen what would happen. I share the guilt for what was done to you."

I had determined I would not cry, but somehow a lick of salt stung in my cut lip. I looked nervously to see how Grey-Eyes might be watching me, and found him hunched over as if he would protect me, his eyes angrily roaming over my face, which now doubtless had lost any small claim it had ever had to prettiness.

"Nothing of it was your fault, Atreh," I said steadily. "You saved me from what more and worse he would have done. For that, I owe you only thanks." Of that much, if not much else, I was certain. There comes a point beyond which resistance only prolongs the suffering, and finally the realisation had come to me that it was time to die. After that, I recalled nothing much save pain and fear, and finally – mercifully – oblivion.

One of my hands was lying on top of the fur. I tried to move it to gingerly wipe my lip, and felt it caught and held lightly. A clean, calloused finger softly dabbed the stinging tear away instead.

"Thank you, LefTenAnt," I whispered.

Atreh chuckled. "His name is Malcolm."

I looked my surprise. "But he said…"

"I know. I am not sure of how the mistake came about, perhaps his people have different ways of introducing themselves. Maybe that is his clan name. He will tell us when he can, I think."

At that point certain other matters returned to my recollection. I squared my shoulders as best I could, and said, "I set him free, when I had promised you I would not."

"If you had not, I would not have lived to tell the tale. I think we may regard that oath-breaking as set aside. His people are brave fighters, whichever clan he belongs to. Save that he is not the greatest of spear-throwers." He smiled across at Malcolm, who smiled gravely back, doubtless knowing he was under discussion between us.

"And you do not think now that he is one of The Others?" I pressed.

"I do not think that you should be worrying about it." He looked down at me seriously, seeing my impatience with the attempted evasion. "In truth, Jessa, I do not know. He may be. He may be both a brave man and a good one and yet be one of The Others. But that is for Briai to say."

"When he returns." It seemed to me that the sun had risen and set many times since the hunting party had set out; how far away could the herds have moved?

"He and the others have returned already. He will wait till you are fully recovered before the trial."

"Trial?" My eyes flew open, startled and fearful. Was I to be tried for oath-breaking and freeing a prisoner who might endanger the village?

"Jessa." He touched my bruised face with the gentlest of fingers. "Did you think there would be no accounting made for this?"

Malcolm had been silent up till now, but he growled something in his own language. The deep sound of his voice brought back the wolf, and the ice.

"I could not save his brother…" A surge of guilt brought more stinging tears, which were again softly wiped away.

"Not even the _God_ could have saved his brother. Ishir's Mane, Jessa, Arlay was run clean through. No man could have survived that. That will not serve as his defence – no matter who pleads it."

Something about his voice warned me not to pursue the matter, for I well knew who would be the most concerned in all this. One brother dead and the other on trial, and I – whom she had always despised – was responsible for both… I shuddered, and turned the subject. "But who attacked us? Is everyone safe?"

"For the first, we are not sure … the one man we captured was badly injured, and he died before we could begin questioning him. From what evidence we have, I think they were Outcast. At least two of those I fought bore the marks."

When a man is declared Outcast for breaking the tribe laws, crossed cuts are opened in his face with a knife, and wood-ash rubbed into them so that they heal with a raised scar, shaming him for life. It is a thing not done lightly or often, in fact it had not been done in our tribe within my lifetime, but the threat of it remains. Those who suffer it find life hard and short, outside the warmth and protection of folk and family. They will never again be accepted, and become desperate, homeless men. Life on the Great Plains is not easy; the winters are long, and can be harsh. Small wonder, then, that now and again they band together to form a bitter little tribe of their own, and live on what they can steal….

"And the second?" I prompted.

His face was bleak, but he gave me first the news I would naturally wish to hear. "Bihiv is safe; he was among those Briai sent to give chase, but the marauders' horses were fresh, and ours were spent from the hunting. He is on guard duty, and sends his love – he will come to you as soon as he can.

"Of those who were left to guard the village, Kerran and Ayo are dead. Sorav took a thrust in the arm, but we think it will heal cleanly. The women were mostly more scared than hurt, but Tyanna – it is not well with her. They think she may lose her child." A deep, suddenly unsteady breath told me, with a knife-thrust of dread, that he had saved the worst for last, and would have spared me if he could. "Garv … they were trying to steal Syach."

 _Syach?_

 _Steal_ Syach?

Death was one thing. It was terrible, but it could be understood, could be dealt with. This was something other, something so utterly alien that at first I could not even grasp it.

The theft of mares is one thing. It is a rarity, told among the Tales at the winter fireside to make children gasp with horror at the cruelty and audacity of such an act. In real life it seldom happens more than once in a hundred years, is a crime so vile that it must be atoned for with heartsblood; even to call another man 'mare-thief' is an insult that will be answered with a bared blade before the Cave Mouth.

Mares, yes. But to lay hands on the King Horse, the life of the Tribe – the earthly representation for us of Ishir the Sun Horse, whom the God fought without ceasing for eight years and eight days to bridle and bring obedient to His hand…

I thought I was going to be sick. All I could utter was an appalled croak.

"It was thanks only to Garv that they did not succeed," Atreh went on, his face now as hard as stone. "He offered his life in payment, and the God took him to ride among His herdsmen. But Syach is safe."

"Unharmed?" I whispered at last.

"There is no mark on his hide. But he has felt the rope, and the whip. I think the God's anger is in him. It will be well if the People give him room from this time on."

I thought of all that fire and beauty and strength and freedom, roped and struck when he had never in all his life so much as heard a word uttered in anger. I could have wept for the desecration of his trust in men.

Malcolm was looking from one to the other of us. He could obviously see our distress, for his hand crept out tentatively to rest on Atreh's shoulder.

"We think that their aim was twofold – to steal Syach, and to raid for whatever they could catch up in haste from the village. Food, and maybe a woman or two for pleasure." His voice was grim; women in general cannot keep up with the way men such as these must ride, and are used and killed as the occasion presents itself. "But with the village under attack, every man would have made a difference. Even if the alarm had been given sooner, there would have been more time to organise the defence. And two fools who should have been keeping watch decided instead to go about their own affairs, where they had no business in the first place. If we had lost Syach, it would be greatly due to their folly."

 _If we had lost Syach…_ I could hardly bear to hear the words said. True, in the nature of things there would one day be a challenger for the control of the herd. The previous year Garv had taken three mares to be covered by wild stallions, and the two strong young colts that resulted were still running ungelded with their dams, growing towards their prime. The time would come for one of them to make his bid, and then Syach would fall. However unsettling for the tribe that would be when it came, it was a part of the order of things, no more to be changed than the passing of the seasons. Losing him through theft, through the act of men … it was as though the ground had split beneath our feet, and the hells had appeared in all their terror and ugliness.

"I have stayed longer than I should," he said, clearly recalling duties that still called him – in the aftermath of such an attack, the whole village would be churning like an overset ants' nest. "I do not think they will return, now we are at our whole strength again. But our lord will take no chances.

"What matters now is that you do not worry, and that you take your own medicines and treat yourself as you would do one of your patients. And take your own advice, and rest till you feel better," he ended with an effortful smile, as he rose to his feet.

"I will," I answered, and knew from the rueful downturn of his mouth as he left the tent that he knew it for a hollow promise but could do nothing to restrain whatever foolishness I might get up to in his absence. As if I could laze about in bed, when there was Sorav's arm to look to, and Tyanna – she had waited long for a child, and maybe with the right help she might not lose it after all–

As soon as his shadow had left the sunlight outside I set my hand to the fur covering. Yes, I was hurt, but that was not going to hold me abed when there was work to be done.

I had not taken Malcolm into account. As soon as my hand closed on the fur, his gripped it – gently, but firmly – and moved it away. I tried again, and again he moved it away. His expression was one of determination.

"I have to get up!" I said crossly. "For one thing, if I stay here, I will piss all over the bedding, and it will not be you who has to clean it!"

He did not speak our language, and I rather doubted the few words Atreh had succeeded in teaching him had included the concept of needing to visit the latrine pit. Nevertheless, he immediately got up and started rummaging around my store of pots and bowls, while I watched in some apprehension.

My anxiety was justified when he turned around triumphantly with a carved wooden bed-pan in his hand. Was I to be allowed _no_ dignity, and in front of this man among all others?

I am sure he understood my look of dismay. His smile disappeared, and as he came back across the tent he looked thoughtful. Nevertheless, practical matters still had to be attended to, and the pressure on my bladder would only get worse.

He set down the bed-pan beside me, and then untied the strap of leather that was still (by some miracle) around his head where I had tied it to hold the pad in place atop his injury. He re-tied it around his eyes, and I realised I was not the only one prey to foolishness in the world; but nevertheless, the gesture was a touching one, and showed that he remembered that I had done what I could to safeguard his own dignity when it had been he who was injured and in pain.

I cannot claim that what followed was pleasant; it was not until I truly tried to move that I found out the extent of the beating I had taken. But he helped me as I needed, with great gentleness and reverence, and presently I had done what I needed to and could draw the covers back over myself and relax in much better comfort.

He took off the blindfold and smiled down at me. He said something in his own language, but I caught my name: 'Jessa'. And somehow it sounded quite different in his voice than it ever had before in anyone else's, so that I could not quite refrain from smiling back at him.


	21. Chapter 21: Sato

"Everything appears to be progressing perfectly well so far, Ensign."

Phlox's smile – to do him credit – wasn't the face-splitting beam I could guess he'd normally produce on these occasions. Denobulans having the familial arrangements they apparently do, he'd probably had a lot to do with pregnant ladies, but probably not that many with the problems I had right that minute.

I'd deliberately refrained from looking at the screen. Whatever was on it, I didn't want to know; it'd just make the decision I had to make that much more complicated, and it was complicated enough as it was.

Somebody somewhere once said that endless time for thought produces nothing but endless indecision. Well, I had the indecision but I sure hadn't got endless time. On the contrary: my time was running out fast.

And it made things all the worse that I was currently helping Phlox look after a baby of his own. A baby whose mere existence made my head ache, if it hadn't been aching enough already.

It was Trip.

Or rather, it wasn't Trip, who was lying behind the privacy screen over in the furthest corner of Sickbay, being kept alive by machines. It was a clone of him, a cute little baby boy who had half the crew sneaking in to coo over him. The captain probably didn't know about that, but Phlox seemed to think that the little interlude of pleasure for people who were currently strung up like wires 24/7 would be beneficial for them and do no harm to the baby, who like the original seemed to love interacting with people. There were so many wanting to visit I'd had to organize a roster, and my Beta and Gamma shift replacements on the Bridge kept a watch on Captain Archer's movements and warned us when he was on the prowl in this direction. Not that he came that often. I could understand all too well that he had a whole load of issues about ordering Phlox to create a clone in order to harvest its brain tissue, and he'd probably been lying awake much like I was when the both of us should have been getting some sleep.

Sim – we called him Sim, because according to Phlox the correct term for what he actually was was a 'memetic symbiot' – apparently only had a life cycle of fifteen days. It followed that he was growing like a weed, and the stress of his accelerated growth on his body was so great that he had to have to have regular painkilling injections. Even these didn't seem to worry him; I think he liked the hiss of the hypospray, and when Phlox gave him a clean, deactivated empty one to play with, he alternated between putting it in his mouth (his teeth were coming through already) and trying to figure out how it worked.

I wasn't sure exactly why the doc had roped me in as a special helper. Maybe he was just trying in his gentle way to make the idea of caring for a baby less foreign to me, though he already knew I'd had plenty of experience with nieces and nephews (that was his excuse when he asked me in the first place).

Although he'd still honor my decision if it went the other way, I knew he abhorred any waste of life. When we were invaded by that life-form that had accidentally stowed away on the Kreetassans' ship, he stood up to Malcolm's determination to experiment on its severed tentacle to find out how to make it go 'ow!', and he won. Now Malcolm in full 'protector mode' when not only several crew members but Trip and the captain as well were in mortal danger is – _was_ – what I'd call the Unstoppable Force, and for Phlox to take up the status of Immovable Object was one heck of a risky decision. But he'd decided that the tentacle was a life form, and that was enough for him. The horns were locked, and it was Malcolm who gave way.

Malcolm in full 'protector mode'. Tears stung my eyes at the memory as I walked across Sickbay, watched by Phlox, and leaned over Sim in his play-pen. He was already trying to stand, and reached up eager arms towards me.

I couldn't help but wonder what Malcolm would have made of him. Another responsibility, no doubt, but I suspected he'd have been an even rarer visitor than the captain. He and Trip were always such buddies after their initial – well – once they'd gotten to know each other, and Trip's grief ever since we'd lost him had been heartrending to see. It was a selfish sort of consolation I know, but before the accident happened to him in Engineering it was just somehow comforting to sit sometimes with someone who missed Malcom as much as I did, if for different reasons. With Trip I could talk freely, and once or twice we'd even slept in the a same bunk; not for sex, but just because we'd talked so long and cried so much we just fell asleep holding each other. It wasn't something I planned to make a habit of, because although there was a sort of comfort in being held again in a man's arms, the agony of waking up and finding all over again that they weren't Malcolm's was too high a payment.

No, I could make a pretty confident prediction that the ship's Head of Tactical would have treated Sickbay as though it contained a particularly volatile explosive. He'd probably have ventured in once or twice a day just to make sure Trip was still breathing, but any sign of interest from Sim would have had him vanishing like a ghost at cock-crow.

In the meantime, little Sim wanted to be lifted out of the pen. It would have been far too risky for him to be given the run of Sickbay all the time, given the assorted dangerous substances there, not to mention the menagerie of things that could bite or sting if not handled properly, but I knew that Phlox had put off all sorts of research stuff and record-keeping to devote hours to keeping him entertained and cared for. Sim could easily have been spoiled, but he was just the most sweet-natured child, and never took advantage.

"You just want to be with your daddy, don't you?" I took hold of him firmly under the arms, and gasped at his weight. I knew, of course, that his size was increasing hourly – duty spells on the Bridge meant that visiting him was like time-stop photography – but even since that morning he'd grown astonishingly.

"You should be careful, Hoshi." Phlox had come across, and took Sim from me for a cuddle – he was the most wonderful father, and the boy threw chubby arms around his neck and hugged him.

Yet again, the thought of Malcolm cradling his child stabbed at me. _It wasn't going to happen. Malcolm was dead._ And even if he hadn't been, what was to say he'd have wanted anything to do with it? For all I knew, he'd have run a mile. He'd never given the impression of being even slightly interested in children.

Fifteen days isn't a long time. I knew that Phlox had buckled himself in for one hell of an endurance test. He was going to have to watch a life-form he'd evidently come to feel for as a father grow up, age and die in just over two weeks, and at some point during that time he was going to have to perform intricate brain surgery on him to remove non-critical tissue so that Trip could be revived. I wasn't sure what part of the brain could be regarded as non-critical – I'd have thought all of it was pretty critical one way or the other – but that was Phlox's department, not mine. I was just glad it wasn't my decision.

I still had my decision to make.

And I still hadn't made it.


	22. Chapter 22: Reed

Well, nursemaid wasn't exactly the career I'd had lined up for myself when I left school, but surprisingly, it had its compensations.

Likewise, living among a people who were technologically about on a par with the Celts before the Roman invasion of Britain wasn't something I'd ever contemplated as being my ideal _modus vivendi_ , but even the … well, there were Aspects that I'll pass over lightly, but once I'd sort of got over their attitude to hygiene in general, I found myself starting to get used to it.

I'll admit, it was a relief to find they'd got around to inventing soap. The basic stuff they mostly made do with smelled disgusting, but it was better than nothing, though I was vastly relieved when Jessa noticed me pulling faces over it one morning and pointed me at a jar of stuff that smelled something like lavender. Not that I'm all that keen on lavender, but it was a distinct improvement on 'dead goat', and once I'd mixed a bit of it in I could at least perform my ablutions without wanting to stuff mud up my nose first.

My memories returned slowly. Over the first couple of days it was just more and more of the wave-effect stuff, until slowly the pieces started to connect up. It was like being drip-fed bits of a jigsaw, and I had to learn not to panic, but to just try to go with the process.

I'm not ashamed to admit, though, that I panicked good and proper when I remembered what I should have been doing. I didn't belong here, I didn't even know where 'here' was, but I knew where I did belong: on board _Enterprise_ , searching for the Xindi weapon. Finally I even remembered the last bit of what had happened in the 'real' world – the ' _Enterprise_ ' world: that bloody mine, and the anomaly, and the ground just crumbling underneath me. During the extremely long split second that it took me to fall, I remember thinking that it was going to hurt. I don't think I had time to be very afraid, or even to realise I was probably going to die; I just knew it was going to hurt.

And it did hurt, though not in the 'crap-these-rocks-are-fucking-solid' sort of way you'd expect. They _were_ fucking solid, and a few of them left me affectionate tokens of their extreme solidity, but on the whole it wasn't that sort of experience. It was more like an extreme version of the transporter, and it was damned painful, I could remember that much. But I didn't remember anything else – not until I woke up here. And where 'here' was, I had absolutely no way of finding out. Expressing that kind of concept was probably outside the capability of the language itself, let alone my rather humble and shaky grasp of it. If I'd tried hard, I could probably have managed to ask how I'd got here and conveyed the fact that I'd come from 'somewhere else', and maybe if the small voice of caution hadn't warned me otherwise I might have tried to say something about the stars, but that small voice has never given me bad advice yet, and I heeded it.

It was my clear and imperative duty to find out somehow exactly how I had got here (if I could), and to do my best to get back again (if I could). But even here, several days had passed by the time my situation finally became clear. It didn't even follow that the same number of days had passed in whatever universe/reality/location/time/cross-out-those-that-do-not-apply that _Enterprise_ was in. And what did they think had happened to me? Did they even know I was still alive? Did they realise I'd fallen into some kind of damned worm-hole or something, and if they did had they tried to carry out a rescue?

I hoped to god they hadn't. It was altogether too likely that Commander Impulsive would have done something reckless, although it was a pyrrhic victory that the captain was less prone these days to taking risks than he'd used to be. Maybe he still wasn't as cautious as I'd have liked – witness that stunning dressing-down I'd received when I merely pointed out earlier in the mission that one of our sources of information wasn't the sort I'd buy a second-hand flitter from – but at least he was no longer the joyous Boy Scout who went gaily leaping on to unknown planets just to sniff the hallucinogenic pollen.

But if they _didn't_ know – if they hadn't realised…

"You [look] sad."

Her voice took me by surprise. I'd thought she was asleep when I'd taken out my uniform from the hide I kept it wrapped in, and spread it across my lap.

I'd been wearing a phase pistol, luckily, and it had been brought here with me and stored with my clothing. Automatically I'd checked the power cell as part of my inventory: still plenty in there. (I hadn't been carrying one when we left the ship – hadn't wanted any more accusations of having watched too many science fiction films, especially in front of Hayes – but I'd noticed he bloody brought _his_ handgun along and wasn't reprimanded, so I slipped one out of the locker on the shuttlepod before we left it). The pockets were mostly empty except for a few small things I usually carry with me, none of them of any particular use to me right now. My communicator was still in its pocket, though, and a couple of days ago I'd sneaked out with it and tried – hoping desperately against hope – to raise someone with it. Hell, I'd even have been glad to hear Hayes, but all that came through was the standard background noise of the galaxy sniggering at my optimism.

I'd been running my finger pensively along one of the communicator's edges, wondering if there was the least point in trying again, but now I jumped guiltily and shoved it back in, zipping up the pocket in a hurry.

She was not only awake, she was sitting up. And I'd seen enough of that kind of expression on enough women's faces to know that this time, any argument was going to end up in ignominious defeat on my part.

Woman Want To Get Out Of Bed, it said.

Admittedly the usual reason for my standard response of Woman Stay In Bed A Bit Longer was somewhat different from my present one; mostly, I'm either in there with them or aiming to be very shortly. The role of Sir Galahad was a tad new to me where women and beds were concerned, but I congratulated myself that I'd done a pretty good job of it so far. Over the course of the past few days I'd had my hands practically everywhere except where I'd normally have had them, and had even kept most of my mind on applying various noxious-smelling substances where they were needed. I won't deny that a small wistful part of it did wander down forbidden side-roads and admire the view there, but since I kept my eyes firmly shut the view was wholly imaginary.

Once the camp had settled down a bit, and the word got around that I _didn't_ eat small children, there were actually a few women who offered to relieve me of nursing duties. I suspect they were driven more by a sense of propriety than anything else, and I doubt if they'd have set foot in the place without an escort, but Jessa wouldn't have any of it. Once she started feeling better she took over my education in earnest, and smacked me on the arm when I complained about going back to school at my age. I was speaking in English at the time, but she definitely got the gist. (Probably that was why she wanted to keep me dancing attendance on her: keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and your reluctant pupil changing the bandages.)

I did try. My grasp of the language hadn't got much beyond Me Malcolm You Jessa stage, but I gave it a go.

"Not gooder yet," I said, trying to sound firm and authoritative.

She gave me the Evil Eye. Apparently she wasn't buying the 'firm and authoritative' bit.

"I am _much better_ ," she said, sounding much more firm and authoritative than I'd managed to.

Her brother Bihiv sat with us a lot of the time. He was about two years younger than she was, I reckoned – she was probably mid-twenties – and there was enough resemblance between the two of them to mark them as siblings at a glance, though he was on the leggy side and she was petite. I liked him, except that he was usually too busy laughing at the pair of us trying to get me to construct a 'Cat Sat on the Mat' level sentence to actually contribute anything helpful to the war effort. But he was a wonderful musician. He had a small instrument that was a bit like a harp, and he could play some amazing melodies on it. Very soothing. Once he'd noticed me watching him he offered to teach me, and I think Jessa had enjoyed just lying quietly and listening to us. I suppose my bruised ego found some consolation in being able to pick up playing a lot quicker than talking.

"Bihiv not think better," I said, cowardly calling up theoretical reinforcements.

I didn't exactly get what she said in reply to that, but I gathered she didn't have much opinion of her brother's medical qualifications.

"I stand up. I walk." She threw back the fur, and put her feet to the ground.

"Me think you need your bum slapping," I muttered. Fortunately I muttered it in English, and although she seemed to have accidentally picked up a few words of my native tongue along the way, anatomical terms had been among those I'd carefully avoided.

Part of being a Tactical Officer is admitting when you're defeated. It's not a part I've ever relished, but you put down a marker and move on. In my case I put down my uniform and moved fairly smartly to the side of the bed. "Give me your hands then, you daft woman." Needless to say, that bit was in English as well.

She looked at me darkly, and didn't move.

I heaved a sigh, and searched my memory. Flame – leg – food – bloody hell, what was the word for 'hand'?

Inspiration visited me at last. "Give me hand." (Oops – mind running away with me again.)

"Hand _s_ ," she corrected, rather to my disappointment; I'd quite liked the idea the way it was.

I heaved another sigh. "Hands."

By the little dance of her eyebrows I still hadn't got it absolutely right, but it was evidently close enough to pass muster. She lifted her hands, and I took hold of them by the wrists – earning myself another glare. What the bloody hell had I done wrong now?

"Hold, not pull!" she commanded.

"As the actress said to the bishop," I murmured. Fortunately that didn't translate either.

Anyway, I duly held and _didn't_ pull, because obviously she just wanted someone to steady her while she got herself up to standing. Which – with a certain number of sound-effects that I didn't enjoy listening to – she eventually did.

It was the first time that she and I had actually been standing facing each other, and she was well inside my personal space. I only realised this when I felt the brush of her breasts across my chest as she straightened up, and was immediately consumed with embarrassment.

Not that I didn't like the sensation, of course, but our proximity now engendered a whole risky ball game.

I didn't know whether this culture went in for the 'personal space' thing; it's not even a constant back on Earth. When I'd been at Uni in London, there was one student from Greece who'd had no idea that English people are deeply and unconquerably uneasy about anyone trespassing inside that carefully defined area. She spent the best part of a year being mystified why apparently friendly people she engaged in conversation immediately went into a stealthy retreat, growing more and more uncomfortable as she pursued them in the effort to re-establish what she thought of as a normal conversational distance. The final revelation came as an enormous relief to all sides.

But apart from the 'personal space' angle, there was the 'sexual attraction' angle. Most especially the 'Do I find you sexually attractive' part of the equation. Now we'd got to this distance, what would it signify to her if I stepped back? Would she realise I was just trying to be polite, or would she think it meant I didn't fancy her, or what?

There was a bit of an awkward moment, while we both evidently wondered what to do.

She really did have very lovely eyes. A warm brown colour, with long, thick lashes; unusual, in combination with that beautiful red hair. She was much more attractive than I'd first thought, with a sweet bow of a mouth that was always ready to smile, for all her underlying fieriness.

Her eyes weren't as dark as Hoshi's, though…

The thought of Hoshi made my decision for me. I stepped back, and inspiration made me pull gently on her right arm as though that was what I'd intended along. "You walk."

I wasn't altogether convinced she'd bought it, but I think it was good enough to let both of us off the hook. And she took a few steps, as game as a pebble, but the way her weight hung on my hands told me the effort it was costing her. Her eyes clung to mine as if she was sucking strength from me to keep moving, and her teeth digging into her bottom lip were almost biting through it.

 _Enough_ , I thought. In one swift move I let go of her wrists and scooped her up in my arms. "You, young lady, are going back to bed. That's enough for one day." Well, that was what I meant to say. In hindsight I probably came out with some load of nonsense with the word 'bed' in it. That was one word that strangely enough I didn't have any problem at all recalling.

The fact that she didn't protest was all the evidence I needed that I'd been right. "Good walk," I said quietly as she settled back – thankfully, I thought – on the pillows. "Sun back two time."

It was just as well for both of us that she was a fluent translator of gibberish. "Again tomorrow," she confirmed with a nod.

I went back to my uniform, picked it up and folded it, ready to put away. There was one pocket other than the one that contained my communicator that had something significant in it, and I stroked my fingers across it with a hollow feeling of loss.

Last time we ate lunch in the Mess, Hoshi left behind a data chip containing some stuff she'd been working on in her quarters and meant to take on to the Bridge to continue with in quiet moments. Travis was at the same table, and it was fifty-fifty which of us picked it up – we were both expecting to go straight up to the Bridge afterwards. But I was the one who was closest to it and so I was the one who did, thinking nothing of it; and as things fell out I went not to the Bridge but to the launch bay, following the captain's orders. The data chip was slipped into one of my pockets, to be delivered on my return.

On my return…

The last thing my eyes rested on as I folded the hide across again was the _Enterprise_ badge.


	23. Chapter 23: Jessa

"You not limping today," Malcolm said, smiling up at me.

It was true. For the first time in what felt like a very long while, I felt as though I could walk properly. Perhaps soon I could even think of riding. Arach had survived my cruel treatment of her, and even kept the foal she was carrying, though it had been only a couple of days ago that Shonn had declared her fit to ride again and I was aware that he still regarded me with some suspicion. Garv had chosen his successor well.

"I feel better."

"Not gooder." His smile became sly. We still teased each other about how dreadfully slow he was to learn to speak properly.

I sat beside him. He was watching the herd; since that terrible day when the Outcast riders attempted the unthinkable, always at least two men kept guard over the horses. As soon as he was aware of the duty shared out among the men of the tribe, Malcolm had asked to be allowed to take his share.

At first a little doubtful, Briai had agreed. Without fanfare, he arranged for the newcomer's vigilance to be tested, and after discovering that Malcolm's guard was as keen as that of any other man of the tribe – and far better than most – he accepted him as one of those who could be trusted with that most important of tasks.

The day had been long and hot. Most of the mares were dozing, slack-hipped; the year's foals nursed or slept. Syach stood beneath a nearby small, stunted tree, his tail flicking idly at the flies. I did not think he had missed my arrival – he missed nothing – but where once he had accepted me fearlessly, as he did all of the tribe, now he laid back his ears and moved off if anyone came too close. Even Shonn was no more than tolerated; I often thought that it must have been a merciful release for Garv to have died in the hour that saw his most sacred charge roped and struck, for knowing the man as I had I could well believe that he would never have been able to eat or drink thereafter.

The silence was comfortable for a while, and I hesitated to break it. Malcolm stared steadily out across the plain, his eyes rarely still. Not a hare would move out on the grasslands but he noted it. Nevertheless, his hands were rarely still either; he was invaluable for helping with small tasks like rubbing down a knot in a polished wooden bowl or working a cured skin until it was soft. In between times he practised with a spear, using a bag of grass as a target, and the speed with which he became proficient was stunning. He could already use a sling better than anyone in the tribe, he was an excellent archer, and although at first he was no hand with a sword he had quickly outgrown Bihiv's tutelage in that and was now challenging Atreh's.

We had never discussed where he had come from. I knew well, however, that Briai had only been watching and biding his time. He wished to gain an estimate of the stranger's character for himself, and although I believed that many of the men would give a favourable report, some were still understandably wary. Malcolm had tried hard to fit in, and never shirked his share of any work he was able to perform, but even apart from the fact that he could not speak our language there were so many ways in which he was so different from us that he might as well have come from another world. And even when he learned to make himself understood (it would probably be years before he was colloquially fluent), it seemed to me that there was more than the barrier of language between us. Slowly it dawned on me that he was sorrowful, for all that he did his best to hide it, and often I remembered with a sharpening stab of pain the way he had breathed 'Hoshi' in his sleep.

The women were almost uniformly scared of him, which was foolishness as he had never once shown them anything but gentleness and courtesy. Most of the children took their cue from their mothers and gave him a wide berth, though naturally the older boys bragged that if 'the Outsider' put a foot wrong they would make him rue it. Boys are always foolish, and on one occasion when Briai overheard such a boast the braggart was soundly whipped to teach him that threats are for women – men use soft words or hard blows, not threats. Learning of what was going forward, Malcolm would have argued against a punishment I think he saw as over-harsh, but I persuaded him not to speak; it would have been disrespectful to Briai as well as too clear a reminder of his own alienness from the tribe.

It was maybe just ill luck that the boy was Roish's surviving son, Efat. She could not well protest his innocence, for half the camp had heard him at one time or another, but it was hardly calculated to sweeten her feelings towards Malcolm, or towards me – given that it was I who had caused the 'outsider' to be brought here.

Judgement had also been deferred on Zelav, and I did not know why, save that Briai never acted in haste. The time that had elapsed, however, was great enough for him to have thought the whole affair over a score of times. Even the women could not find out why the miscreant had not been punished. In the meanwhile, Zelav was kept in his own tent under guard, and tied as Malcolm had been tied; a dual punishment in that he was deprived of company (few cared to visit, even those who had formerly been his friends, lest they be thought to condone what he had done), and subjected to treatment that told one and all that he was not even trusted to behave as one of the tribe.

All this, Makia watched in a venomous silence. Before-times, she and Roish had been on nodding terms, but hardly more than that; these days they were often to be found with their heads together, and I did not think they were discussing the weather.

The thought chilled me, despite the fact that the sun was beating down on my shoulders. I shook it off, and slipped a companionable arm through Malcolm's. "I have brought you some water."

"Thankyeou." He knew what the word was in our language by now, of course, but sometimes it still slipped out in his own. I suspected its appearance now showed that his mind had been wandering, even while his eyes and hands were busy; today's task had been the working of several long strands of hair from a horse's tail into a braid that would be used in decoration on an item of clothing. Normally this was women's work, but he did not feel anything like this was beneath him, and his nimble fingers had crafted a perfect, shining, cream-coloured braid that he was just tying off.

I rested my head against his shoulder, watching the small, deft movements. He did not say anything, or move in the slightest, but I was not quite sure what he was thinking, although it was a thing I had done often enough without thought during the days when he was helping me regain my strength, and he had never seemed to mind.

I have said before that it is a fault of mine to sometimes speak before I think. The question slipped out before I well knew it was on my tongue. "Who is Hoshi?"

His fingers became completely still. "A friend."

The quality of the silence had changed. It was no longer comfortable. I was not sure what it had become, but he was certainly waiting for what else I might want to know – and probably wondering how I had come to know the name at all.

He had been with us long enough to know how such things were done among us. Men slept in the _acha-we_ , save when they shared a woman's tent at night. It was up to any woman to choose whom she might invite; some shared their favours indiscriminately, others remained mostly faithful to one man. Children came when they came, and were regarded as belonging firstly to the tribe and then to their mothers. Mostly there was some indication as to which man's spirit had been chosen to give a child the life-force, but no-one paid much heed to such matters. The tribe was everything, and each child was equally valued and cared for by all.

The fact that he still shared my tent was, I knew, the object of some speculation. As a male he would ordinarily have been given furs in the _acha-we_ , but I suspected that Briai was waiting until he was formally admitted into the tribe to do so, if indeed that ever happened. In the meantime, he was still accepted as my nursemaid, but now that both of us were recovered, there was undoubtedly gossip that there was another reason why he was continuing to share my tent.

This gossip was unfounded. His behaviour towards me could hardly have been more chaste if he had been Bihiv. And although I knew with a kind of despair that he had hardly seen me at my best to begin with, and probably thought of me as a sister, I did not think of him as a brother. It was his practice to sleep in only the blue undergarment he had been wearing beneath his 'suit' when we found him, and though I did not deliberately try to look – he was comically shy about those things all men possess, and which as a Healer I was well acquainted with the sight of – I had caught glimpses of his half-naked body in the firelight, and it was beautiful.

"You visit her tent?" I asked at last, when the silence had gone on altogether too long. Obviously it was a woman-friend; the quality of his voice had told me that.

I knew by his stillness what he would say. "Yes."

It was ridiculous that it should hurt as it did. He was a grown man, and doubtless many of the women of his tribe invited him into their tents.

"She is very beautiful," I suggested, twisting the blade in my own breast.

"Very." There was a pause, and then he went on, his voice a little constrained, "Jessa, I–"

The sentence was never completed. I felt his body snap into utter tension, and looking up I saw his gaze fixed on the horizon. He must have had the sight of a falcon, for the riders there were hardly bigger than beads as yet, and it took a moment for me to find what he was looking at.

"Gather women. Keep together. Guard children." He helped me to my feet with as much gentleness as his haste allowed, and took from his belt a disc of polished bronze, which he held high and angled carefully. This was a suggestion of his own that allowed him to signal silently and accurately to the other guardian of the herd, who was under orders never to move out of sight of him so that the sun-flash off it could be picked up at once. The wink of light at the other side of the herd said that Shav was watching, and immediately Malcolm turned the disc quickly from side to side, sending the message of multiple riders. A second flash, followed by the sound of distant drumming hooves, told that the warning was now on the way to the village at top speed.

One other precaution could be taken. Leaving me on the ridge from which he had been watching, Malcolm hurried down towards the tree. Syach immediately moved from underneath it, wary and hostile. He was now alert, and would be that much harder to catch if this was another attempt to snatch him. Once again my heart lurched at the mere idea that such a precaution could be thought necessary, and I could have wept for the trust and gentleness that had been reft from him.

I began walking as fast as I could back towards the village. It was not very far – until Syach signalled that the herd should move to new grazing grounds, horses and tents were rarely far apart. Once that happened, the tents would be packed up and the whole village would follow until he stopped again. At a guess, that would not happen just yet; there still looked to be ample grazing and water.

My best speed was still not very great. Malcolm caught up with me quite quickly, and checked his stride to match mine. I could feel him curbing his eagerness to be away and doing, like Arach mouthing at the bit on a sweet spring morning.

"Surely they would not try again, with all the warriors here," I said childishly, and forgetting that he was not yet very fluent.

He picked up my meaning, nonetheless; he was improving. Still, the terseness of his reply told me that he was concentrating ferociously on his plans rather than on laboriously piecing together an elegant sentence. "Enemy get more people. Try again. Want Syach. Want woman."

The tents in front of us were boiling with activity. The women were calling the children, snatching up babies and toddlers, rushing about like terrified hens and getting in the way of the warriors who were responding to plans that Briai had put together for just such an eventuality. The horses were picketed in an exact order, so that every man knew where his own would be even in the dark; weapons were stacked in specific places so that no man was more than a few strides away from one at any time. Each warrior knew what he was expected to do in any given situation, and the faces I saw as we drew nearer were tense but confident.

Alone among the menfolk, Malcolm had no horse. To the amazement of all, he did not know how to ride like one of the tribe. He had tried to explain that his people rode using something called a 'sadl', but it was not something any of us could easily imagine. Once the soreness to his leg had passed I had offered to lend him Arach so that he could learn, but Shonn had scowled and Briai had said that this was a thing that should wait for another time. It was not an outright forbidding, but his meaning was plain enough: until his status was established, Malcolm was to be treated with caution.

Horses were valuable animals, and furthermore we did not know how his tribe treated their beasts. I think some had suggested that if he was given a mount he might try to escape on it, but that was an absurdity; if he wished to escape there was a whole picket line of horses from which to steal one, and if he could not ride without a 'sadl', any such escape attempt would be destined to ignominious failure anyway. Whether or not, he had walked past the picket line on numberless occasions and never shown the slightest sign of contemplating such a wickedness.

I think he had never really felt the lack until now. Since he did not ride he was never included in a hunt, though he contributed to the tribe's food supplies by bringing down birds and hares with his sling or an arrow, and astonished everyone by somehow being able to catch fish by simply lying still with his arm in the river. Now, however, the battle might well be on, and it would be fought well away from the tents where the vulnerable would stay in hiding.

The frustration was clear in his face as he saw the menfolk gathering, their horses jostling and snorting as they caught their riders' anticipation. "Learn _ride!_ " he snarled.

Even I was tactful enough not to point out that someone would have to be left behind in charge of the village, just in case a stray enemy broke through. If there was an attack in force they would achieve nothing save a quick death, but still it was an honourable duty.

He realised it himself, of course. With a sigh he resigned himself to the inevitable. In accordance with the plans he escorted me to the _acha-we_ and left me there to mull over whether I had enough bandages and salve for the injuries I might have to treat.

I was not sure how to read the expression in his face when he left me. His eyes were almost slate-colour, carefully guarded, but at the last moment he leaned in awkwardly and dabbed a quick kiss on my mouth.

I was so surprised I did not even have time to respond. I just stood there, dumbfounded, while he turned away abruptly and went to fetch a spear from the few that were left in the nearest pile.

There had been a hubbub behind me, of wailing babies and crying women, but I turned around into a monstrous hush.

They had all seen.

He had _kissed_ me.


	24. Chapter 24: Reed

For a chap who prides himself on having a pretty rational approach to things in the general run, there are times when I really do fall completely off my perch.

If it had been physically possible, I'd have kicked myself in the arse with both feet as I picked up the spear and tested it for balance. I was still heaping recriminations on my own head as I walked out to the perimeter of the village, and watched the warriors assemble into order.

They were a magnificent lot. If they'd had time to deck themselves out properly they'd have had all sorts of trimmings; they went in for decoration in a big way, mostly for ceremonies, but going to war was one of the ones where everything bar peacock feathers got stuck on. As it was, they still did their hasty best; gold was apparently _de rigeur_ on the battlefield, as it was thought to make it easier for their Sun God to find the bodies of the slain, and everyone had pulled on a gold ornament of some kind. Briai was huge and magnificent with a bear pelt pulled on over his shoulders; the upper part of the bear's muzzle fitted over his forehead (presumably he'd push it off when the fighting started), and its front paws were knotted across his chest, the great claws sheathed in gold.

He lifted a spear and shouted an order, and the phalanx moved off at an orderly trot that quickly turned into a canter. They wouldn't gallop; the enemy were coming to them, and the fresher their horses were when the fighting kicked off, the better.

The lie of the land meant that I could no longer see the approaching horsemen. They'd presumably made sure to approach from the one side where visibility was slightly limited by the geography, and were counting on not being seen till they were nearly on the village, just as had happened last time. Bad luck for them that I'd had my eyes peeled. Dull as it can be around here, where nothing much happens for days on end, the feeling of protecting someone fitted into an emptiness in my soul that had been nagging at me ever since I'd woken up in Jessa's tent; and if it didn't fill it, at least it went some way towards easing it.

Jessa. Why the _sodding hell_ had I gone and kissed her – and in front of all those clacking women to boot?

'Because I knew she wanted me to' was an answer, but it wasn't an entirely honest one. And I know it's an age-old tradition that men on the eve of battle get the primal urge to pass on their genes while they still have the chance, but that wasn't entirely the answer either. When I'd reached the tent, the primal urge that was uppermost in my mind was the urge to pee – I'd been holding on to it for ages while I was on lookout duty, and had been just about to quietly water the flowers when Jessa had appeared; and it's really not the sort of thing a Reed does in front of the ladies, even ladies as matter-of-fact about bodily functions as this one was.

I could have comforted myself by claiming that the discomfort temporarily disabled my 'Sensible' function, leaving me abandoned to the dictates of my lower nature. But my lower nature certainly wouldn't have gone for a 'quick peck on the lips and run like hell' operation; I might have scandalised the occupants of the tent, but that's by the bye. No, something altogether more sinister was afoot, and I grasped the shaft of the spear and tried miserably to hope that I could meet a heroic end slaying the biggest chap on the field, leaving myself just enough time to deliver a tear-jerking farewell to all present before expiring.

Attractive as the idea was, however, the way my luck was going I'd probably spoil the drama completely by pissing all over my feet halfway through my farewell speech.

A quick glance around revealed nobody in view to take exception. I quickly solved my problem behind the nearest tent, trying not to groan aloud with the relief. Now at least I could launch into my 'Friends, Romans, countrymen' bit without having to warn everyone to stand clear…

The last of the warriors topped the small rise and disappeared. I was left to listen to the diminishing sound of the horses' hooves, and wait.

I'm really bad at waiting.

And this wait seemed to go on for an _incredibly_ long time.

I knew that the sounds of conflict would be pretty muted, given the distance and the lack of any sort of artillery. If I was lucky and they weren't too far away and the wind was in the right direction (there wasn't much of it that day, but I'd felt a touch of a breeze from about that direction now and then), I might catch a bit of screaming. After that, the next thing would be more hoofbeats. And I wouldn't know till the horses topped that rise what was coming next.

I prowled around a bit and did a few preliminary exercises and a quick _kata_ , loosening up the muscles in my throwing arm. I'd been practising a bit of _t'ai chi_ while I was standing guard, so I was feeling fairly centred, but I did some slow breathing to bring my pulse down. I bounced gently on my feet, loosening my leg muscles, and deliberately blanked my mind out; pushed away all thoughts of _Enterprise_ , or the captain, or Trip …

Or Hoshi ….

Or Jessa…

 _Fix intent._

 _Protect at all costs. Protect at all costs. Protect at ALL costs._

The first movement at the top of the ridge: spear-tips, winking in the sunlight. I inhaled and exhaled slowly, and picked up my own spear. I had a knife, too, though not a sword; a sword was only given to a man as part of some kind of ritual that accepted him as a fully adult member of the tribe, and Bihiv had needed to borrow some blunt practice ones for our training bouts. He'd receive his own later in the year, and I'd often wished my command of the language enabled me to delve into the intricacies of the People's beliefs about this. As best I could understand it, a warrior's sword is his soul, which was an interesting idea. Unfortunate, perhaps, in that in their eyes I was soulless, but it wasn't as though it was a state I'd never experienced before…

A wash of horsemen came over the hill. They weren't at the gallop, so I'd have plenty of time to pick my dead man. I let my gaze roam over them leisurely, and then with a slight shock recognised Briai, in the midst of them. Then others – all of the others, picked out by the blinks of gold in their hair and clothing. In addition (undoubtedly due to Syach's efforts, and his sire's), many of the tribe's horses had his distinctive, almost fox-red coat and slightly lighter mane and tail, and the shine of them stood out among the duller bays and chestnuts of the strangers.

I did not relax until they were close enough for me to catch Briai's reassuring nod. Even more than that, he was riding with easy confidence; none of the warriors were bound, and no weapons were in evidence.

There were more of the new arrivals than I'd expected. They outnumbered our own men by almost three to one, but even the narrowest scrutiny failed to suggest that they came with ill intent. Quite the opposite; groups had formed where lively conversations were taking place with the ease of long acquaintance, and a number of individuals were positively beaming. It bore all the hallmarks of a family reunion, and it seemed that I was not, after all, going to be cashing in my ticket to Valhalla that day.

I'd keyed myself up so successfully that it was somewhat difficult to convince my suprarenal glands that the production of adrenaline was now superfluous to requirements. There was quite enough washing around in my bloodstream as it was, and I was aware that even though my conscious mind had given the all-clear, my body was going to take a while to be convinced. Might be best if I kept myself to myself for a while, as best I could. A fight would have earthed all the energy I'd carefully built up, but if there _was_ no fight then just like the vast amount of static energy in a thundercloud, it would be looking for tall buildings, over-ambitious trees or (in my case) somebody who looked at me the wrong way or for just half a second too long.

Turning the spear point-down as a sign of non-hostility, I stepped back and – knowing my behaviour would be the subject of intense scrutiny by the visitors – bent my head respectfully to Briai as he rode past. I was aware of the deeply curious stares of the men who rode beside and behind him; they prickled along my skin, and I caught the murmur of questions and comments that it was probably just as well I didn't understand, though the tone of most of them was pretty unmistakable. The People tend to be built on the large side, and I'd already become aware that my small size was not thought indicative of warriorliness; it was one reason why my skill at martial arts had come as such a shock in the previous skirmish. So not only was I a stranger who might have come from anywhere (I could hardly tell them I'd come from a starship via some kind of bloody wormhole, even if I'd known the words), I was a runt to boot. Not a reflection calculated to calm my already fizzing bloodstream.

It occurred to me that the women would still not know that the village had been stood down from Tactical Alert, so to speak. It would be a kindness to put them in the picture, and it would legitimately remove me from centre stage as well, which was a definite plus.

I walked quickly to the _acha-we_ , feeling the stares burn my back. (That was another thing I'd had to get used to: the People don't regard staring as rude. In some ways they're as simple as children, which is not always the good thing it's cracked up to be.)

The non-combatants inside were all listening, of course, bunched in the centre of the area with the children in the middle. Nobody wanted to go near the tent opening; they didn't know who or what would come through it. A few of the more spirited – probably the ones who'd helped out last time – had possessed themselves of spare spears and were waiting at the front with them; I reflected that it might be a good thing if someone took volunteers in hand and gave them a bit of training, because although it looked brave enough and I honestly admired them for it, they probably wouldn't have actually achieved much if I'd been the big bad wolf. Though I'll admit it was a bit of a shock initially when I went in and found myself facing the business end of several blades that wouldn't have done me much good if the people wielding them had known what they were doing.

"Not dangerous," I said, spreading my hands in what I hoped was a suitably calming gesture. "Friends."

A relieved babble broke out, though the number of people who clearly reserved judgement until they saw for themselves showed me fairly clearly who my friends were, and there weren't that many of them. I suppose from their viewpoint it was reasonable enough: if I really was a big bad wolf myself, then the arrival of a whole pack of big bad wolves would not – from my point of view – be a bad thing. _My_ friends wouldn't necessarily be _their_ friends, and it would fit in with my scoundrelly character to use this neat bit of deceit to disarm whatever resistance they'd been planning so that my fellow-scum would have an easier time of it when they put in an appearance.

However, although I could understand their reservations, it still hurt more than I'd have expected. I'd tried hard to fit in, to be accepted; until or unless I could find some way to get back to _Enterprise_ , what else could I do? I thought and hoped that I'd earned myself a modicum of trust among most of them. The number who looked at me suspiciously told me that even if trust had taken root, its roots were shallow. For some, I doubted whether a lifetime would be enough to convince them of my honesty.

It was probably inevitable that Jessa should be the first to step forward. At least she had no doubts that I was telling the truth, and not just for myself. The trust in her clear gaze was salve for the sudden surge of hopeless longing to be back in my own world, where at least I'd belonged; where at least everyone on the ship believed I was on their side, even if I _had_ watched too many science fiction films and had a mile-wide streak of paranoia where suspicious sources of information were concerned.

Atreh was hard on my heels. At least nobody suspected _him_ of being a Trojan Horse, I thought bitterly, seeing all of the faces finally relax and produce smiles of relief all round. At a guess, it would be a busy night tonight in the ladies' tents; it had come as a bit of a surprise to find out their lax attitudes to relationships, though it seemed sensible enough in a lot of ways. It would also probably be a fairly noisy night too; their laxity extended to seeing nothing wrong with letting the world in general know when they were having a great time among the furs, and I'd practically dropped in my tracks the first time I'd passed a tent where it sounded like the occupant was getting the shagging of a lifetime and nobody around seemed even the slightest bit embarrassed about it. So visitors would bring variety, doubtless ensuring themselves a warm welcome among the womenfolk, and in evolutionary terms it was probably a good thing for the gene pool.

"Our Lord sent [messages] to two [other] tribes after the [attempt] on Syach," he told them – I could sort of get the gist of it, enough to allow me to fill in the details. "They felt the matter [grave enough] to call a [council], and it was the swiftest [alternative] to come themselves [rather] than send a [summons]."

There was a communal gasp, and then everyone began talking at once, so that he held up his hands for silence. "Our Lord knows they [will be made] welcome with our village's [traditional hospitality]. It would be [well if] they [could be given] food and drink as soon [as may be], for they [have been travelling] for many days."

On that score, he was obviously talking their language. Polite as the People usually are, the visitors hadn't come empty-handed – I'd seen baggage-horses on lead reins among them – but the arrival of guests put the women of the camp on their domestic mettle. They poured out of the _acha-we_ like bees from a disturbed hive, heading for the _kiwa-we_ , the storage tents and the roasting pits.

He turned his gaze to me. "Later, the chiefs want to talk to you. Then they will talk to Zelav. Then they will talk to Briai."

It was probably inevitable. My arrival followed almost immediately by an attempt to steal the tribe's most precious possession was pretty serious stuff, I'd already gathered that much, and I was heartened by how evidently appalled everyone had been by Zelav's attack on Jessa. She'd told me since that people with brown eyes aren't as highly thought of among the People as those with blue or even green eyes (a fact which both perplexed and annoyed me; nobody can help what colour eyes they're born with!), but that still didn't prevent everyone taking what had happened to her very seriously. I wasn't sure how much those two bastards' deciding to have a go at me at the same time might be considered as compounding the offence; after all, I wasn't one of the People, so maybe the rules didn't apply to me to begin with. And it didn't make me feel a whole lot better when I found that _nobody_ among the People had grey eyes: nobody.

Still, I won't deny that my heart did sink a bit as I realised that the visitors must be here by Briai's invitation. It sounded very much like a tribunal was going to be set up, and the whole thing smacked a bit too much of a Court Martial for my comfort. I wasn't going to be helped by my very limited command of the language, and I didn't even know if the person who understood me best would be allowed to stand as my legal representative, even if she'd still be willing to after my earlier faux-pas. I already knew that women were restricted in their roles in this society; maybe only men could address a tribunal. Bihiv probably wouldn't be allowed to either, because he was still counted as a junior… if only I understood the rules a little better!

Nevertheless, I don't think any of my anxiety showed on my face; I'd learned long ago how to hide anything I didn't want others to see. However closely Atreh studied me, he'd see nothing but an impassive acceptance.

After all, I had nothing to fear.

… Had I?


	25. Chapter 25: Tucker

'An experiment'.

I was an _experiment._

Talk about falling from the top of the mountain to the bottom. Hell, I didn't even stop at the bottom; I smashed straight through the crust and shot through the mantle, only to end up with an almighty crash, spread-eagled all over the core – the hard, impenetrable core of T'Pol's absolute indifference to everything I'd tried to achieve the previous night.

I'd thought we'd finally found a shared language. I'd thought she'd finally owned up to the fact that there was _something_ between us. I'd thought that if I gave it everything, absolutely and totally everything, it would show her how much I cared about her. Every other woman I'd ever slept with was a note of music: T'Pol was the song.

But then, I'd had no idea that I was just the lab rat in her 'exploration of Human sexuality'.

I don't even remember very clearly what I said when she told me. I guess I made some kind of a desperate stab at keeping hold of what was left of my dignity – I'm pretty sure I ended up saying we ought to just act like it had never happened at all, and just to show her revelation really wasn't such a big deal to me I even said we should go on with the neuropressure sessions.

Way to go, Tucker. Like that's going to happen, when you have to work every day with the woman of your dreams who thinks of you as a lab rat. Like you can even _look_ at her without remembering that robe falling off her shoulders. Like you can even _hear her voice_ without remembering it saying 'Are you getting emotional?'

Yeah, T'Pol, I guess you could say I'm getting kind of emotional even now. Not many guys I know of could take what you handed out to me that morning _without_ getting kind of emotional. But hell, at least you got plenty of research material for your goddamn 'exploration of Human sexuality'.

I didn't have much time to think about it for most of the rest of the day; luckily for me, there was a lot going on round about then. There was that alien we'd found who knew a darn sight more than it let on before it finally found its way to hell, and then there was that ruckus between McKenzie and Gomez trying to punch each other's lights out. Not to mention what Müller did to the warp engines when he reversed the polarity on the plasma coils – it took me the best part of two days to patch that up.

But come the evening, and I knew it was going to be yet another sleepless night. I wanted nothing so much as to get blind, shitfaced, howling, falling-down drunk, but I knew I couldn't. I had to get up in the morning and get to work on the rest of the repairs. Sure, the guys on the other two shifts would still be on it, but I'd restricted them to the less important stuff; call me a worry-guts, but I like to do the real important bits myself, or at least be there to supervise.

'Worry-guts'. Even now the words have an English accent, and that night it was so clear and sharp you could have cut cheese with it. He couldn't even say 'worry-wart' like everyone else. No, it had to be that weird 'worry-guts'. And I had to remember it tonight of all nights, and I had to remember all over again that he was dead. I couldn't turn up at his cabin with a couple bottles and know he'd understand why I was there without having to be told. And he was probably the only person on the ship I _could_ have told, the only guy whose shoulder I could have cried on the way I needed to cry that night.

In hindsight, I suppose it was some kind of warped logic that took me to Hoshi's cabin instead. Because as far as I knew, that was where all that was left of Malcolm could be found … well, she hadn't said anything, maybe she'd already done the logical thing. I didn't know, I didn't want to know. All I knew was that I wanted company, I wanted to be with someone else who was hurting. I took a few beers, though I didn't know if she liked it.

I don't think she was asleep when I knocked. I guess she wasn't sleeping much either. She's a dab hand with cosmetics, but she'd eaten in Mess and gone straight into the shower, and it didn't seem like she'd had any plans about going out again, because she hadn't put on any make-up. Without it, I could see the shadows like bruises under her eyes, and with me she didn't have to keep up a front. I'd told her I'd be there for her, whatever.

I have no idea why it happened. We didn't even get around to opening the beers. I don't even know how she ended up in my arms. Maybe it was just that Malcolm was gone and my hopes had gone, and both of us just needed someone.

Afterwards she turned away from me and sobbed like she felt like some kind of whore. I just lay and stared dry-eyed at the ceiling, wishing that a Xindi torpedo would land a direct hit on it and put me out of my misery.

Life's an absolute fucking bitch, ain't it?


	26. Chapter 26: Phlox

Hmm.

I had really not fully understood how disconcerting it would be to have the ship entirely to myself – well, except for the captain's little canine friend, who was the only other crewmember on board whose neocortex would not be affected by this phenomenon through which the ship had to pass. Every other person on board was now fast asleep. Comatose, to put it more accurately, and apart from catching up on my correspondence with Doctor Lucas (I'd fallen sadly behind with it lately, so this was a happy opportunity in that respect), I had nothing much else to do than carry out routine patrols around the ship, checking that everyone was where they ought to be and that nothing untoward disturbed the peace of the empty corridors.

Denobulans in general are not fond of solitude. I was more grateful than I care to admit for Porthos' company, in spite of the fact that his talents in the field of conversation are somewhat lacking. He's a happy little animal, though, and seems not to bear a grudge for the occasions when I've had to treat him for the results of his master's disastrous habit of feeding him cheese – a substance entirely unsuitable for a dog's digestive tract (a fact which Captain Archer seems completely incapable of assimilating).

Eighty-one crew and thirty-one MACOs made for a busy rounds, even if each visit invariably involved nothing more than checking to see each patient was still peacefully slumbering. And of course, every two hours I had to fit in my appointed visit to Engineering, where so far I'd been pleased to see that the readings showed the impulse manifolds to be functioning perfectly adequately. It was fortuitous that I was nowhere near my time for hibernation, so the need to keep up the visits throughout the night were no trouble to me at all.

I'd already visited the starboard cabins and was working my way around the quarters on the other side of the saucer when I was slightly surprised to come across Hoshi. I tend to forget that she requested permission from the captain to exchange with Ensign Porter, who works the Gamma shift.

Like everyone else, she was sleeping peacefully. I admit, however, that it was not only at the transmitter on her forehead that I looked.

She hadn't yet requested that I carry out a termination, and it was drawing close to the point at which it would become a medical procedure that would affect her ability to perform her usual functions as a Bridge officer. Naturally I wouldn't disclose the reasons for this to anyone, and although I would regret the necessity, if pressed by the captain I would probably have invented some minor falsehood. Before that terrible attack on Earth, Captain Archer would probably have been more understanding of what is after all a perfectly natural phenomenon, but events in the Expanse had affected him, and not for the better. Repugnant as it would have been to me to lie to him, I felt that honesty would be more damaging in the circumstances.

It was also becoming a moot point how much longer it would be before someone else became aware of what was now becoming somewhat noticeable. Ensign Sato is very slender, and the Starfleet uniforms are quite close-fitting. Now that she was lying supine and still, the lower part of her abdomen was displaying a small but perceptible curve.


	27. Chapter 27: Jessa

With all the visitors to make welcome, it was a busy evening.

They were all quite adept at putting up their own tents; they had brought their own accommodation, and even hunted as they came so that they would not arrive empty-handed and place an unbearable strain on our resources. Life on the Plains is hard enough in any year, and it takes care to set by enough to see us through a winter that is always long and can be very hard. Feeding so many, even for a couple of days, would have seen starvation prowling even closer to the tents by winter's end than it ordinarily does – and even in mild years, most faces are growing somewhat gaunt by the time the sun returns to warm the land.

I took my share in the preparations, as I always do. Such visits are relatively rare, but not so rare that we do not know how to deal with them; the initial excitement settles into an orderly bustle in which the new arrivals' tents are set up, their horses picketed and fed, and the evening meal set in train.

The visitors helped politely where they could, and when they could not they joined the rest of the menfolk in the _acha-we_ , which is made large enough to accommodate the whole tribe on the move but which was now – with so many inside – decidedly crowded, noisy and more than a little stuffy. As many panels as might be were tied aside to let in air, but still the close-packed bodies, mostly wearing some kind of fur garment, generated a great deal of heat. It was maybe just as well that Malcolm was not present, as I knew that he was sensitive to strong smells and certainly not many among the folk were nearly as meticulous in daily washing as he was.

I did not know where he was. I had not seen him since he came to give us the good news that we were safe after all, and it came to me that this was deliberate on his part. I could guess that he had done what he had believing that we might not meet again, and now feared that I might have been offended.

I was not offended; I hardly knew what I was, and even the work that had to be done brought me little respite from the confusion in my mind. The glances of the other women were not lost on me either. What had been speculation up till then was now given ample fuel; a man does not kiss a woman unless there is real feeling between them, but Malcolm had never given me any reason to believe that he entertained such feelings towards me. Maybe customs were different among his tribe? He was different from us in so many ways that I hesitated to place the usual emphasis on his actions, even though everyone else plainly did.

"He is helping Bihiv and the others with the horses," Atreh said softly in my ear as he passed me – he being not too high in his own estimation to help with carrying things to and fro in preparation for the night's feasting.

For all the quietness with which he spoke, Makia was nearby, and as soon as he was out of earshot she struck like a snake. "Strange that he should think it important enough to mention. I have not heard it talked of among the tents that stallion-calls have been heard from your tent. Maybe your little pet is but half a man - or thinks the mare hardly worth the mounting."

"Maybe the stallion thinks that what happens between him and the mare is no business of any who may happen to be passing with nothing better to do," I said smartly.

She smiled. "Maybe that could be a thing to be tested … if he is indeed a man, and were to scent a mare better suited to his skills."

I would not let her see how her words wounded me, though of course she knew. "He is a man grown. It is his choice."

"Hmmm…" Her voice grew soft, contemplative. "I scarcely lack company. But perhaps it would be a new experience … bedding one of The Others."

My eyebrows lifted. "Briai has informed you privily of his judgement? I had not thought…" I allowed the sentence to trail off delicately.

Her eyes were cold, for all her smile. "He is one of The Others, Jessa. All know it. The other Tribe Lords will confirm the judgement, and then we shall see."

"As they will confirm the judgement on Zelav. And then, truly, we will see."

Just for a moment, the thrust broke open her self-control. The hells peeped through the blue. "Both of my brothers would be living and free but for you and your Other runt. I will see both of you dead, Jessa, I have sworn the oath on Arlay's path to the Grazing Lands. But before you die I will have my revenge." Before I could respond she whisked away and carried ale to a group of the visitors' warriors, who were not slow to appreciate her beauty and her hospitality. One or more, no doubt, would presently receive the invitation to still warmer hospitality during the visit.

And sooner rather than later, she would extend that invitation to Malcolm. I knew it. And there was nothing I could do to warn him; a man makes his own decisions in such matters. It would be thought a failure in his manhood to reject it if it was issued in public, as I knew she certainly would, to ensure his compliance. Even if he was minded to refuse on the grounds of whatever he felt for his Hoshi, she knew all the arts of displaying a body that was stunningly lovely. I could guess without difficulty that the invitation would be made in front of me, and that she would glory in my suffering. Doubtless the whole village would be made her confidant the next day on the details of his stallion-prowess, and I would not be spared the knowledge of how far superior he had found her in the furs. If, indeed, he kept it from her that he had not touched me at all; I could imagine all too well how she would crow over me if she learned that she had been able to have for one asking what had been denied me over all these weeks.

I could do nothing but keep my composure as best I could as I went on about my tasks. There was nothing I could do. I could not warn him; I could not hold him. Mother of Mares, I had nothing to hold him _with_. He had not even put a hand on me, whatever the rest of the village thought. Nothing but that fleeting kiss, which might have meant anything or nothing. And why should I wish to deny him pleasure? Much depended on what final decision Briai and the others came to as to who he was and what he was doing here. His very _life_ might depend on it. If he had so little time left, surely it was only for the best that he should take from that life all the pleasure he possibly could…

I could will myself to believe that. But to honour it in my heart as the truth, and a thing I truly willed to come about…

… That was a different matter entirely.

=/\=

Time passed, as time does, and it was time for the evening meal.

Normally the men eat together in the _acha-we_ , and the women in the _kiwa-we_. For one thing, both sexes find it easier to relax in the company of their own kind. Afterwards, when the platters are emptied and the wine-cups filled, any woman who chooses may go to the other tent, and be welcomed there. It is mostly at such times that invitations are given and accepted, though any who choose to go simply for the company – uproarious as it usually is by then – may come and go freely. Betimes I myself had gone, and earned myself something of a name for a wit; I have never seen any reason why a woman should not duel in words with a man if he throws down the challenge, as long it is all in play, and more than one man among our own tribe had learned that I was as quick as any of his fellows and quicker than many.

I knew that as a man, Malcolm would be expected to eat in the _acha-we_. I also knew that Atreh and Bihiv would be with him, to give him the companionship of at least two people who would not eye him askance or not understand his limited ability to converse (though indeed there were others who had begun to regard him with some friendliness). And, no doubt, it was also in their minds to afford him some measure of protection; it was strictly against the law to carry weapons into the Tent, other than the belt-knife a man uses for eating, but Makia had influence around the village and her brothers had friends. As brave as he was, Bihiv would probably count for little as he had not yet received his Tribe-mark, but despite his relative youth Atreh already counted for a great deal. I pinned much faith on him being able to guide Malcolm safely through what might well be a perilous couple of hours.

By the time I returned to my tent to bathe and change, Malcolm had already dressed in a borrowed set of finery and gone – I smelled his soap in the bowl he used for washing, and his everyday clothes lay neatly folded on his furs. I had washed my hair earlier in the day, and now had nothing much more to do than run a bone comb through it and change into my festival gear. Not that this was much different to my ordinary clothing, save for a few lines of stitching around the neck and the traditional long strings that hang from the waist, decorated with ivory beads that accentuate movement in the dance.

Malcolm and I still had not exchanged a word. Earlier, I had passed the horse-lines where he was rubbing down one of the visitors' geldings, but although I thought he was aware of me, Bihiv made a face at me with a little head-shake that I understood all too well as signifying 'Not now'. It seemed, then, that my little brother was among those who had heard the gossip that would doubtless have flown around the camp as though on wings…

My preparations were complete, such as they were. I took out from beneath my pillow the only thing of value I owned – a small, clear, oval green stone I had once found in a stream-bed, mysteriously cut so that light played in it. Hargi the village's blacksmith had consented to make a metal setting for it so that I could wear it on a thong around my neck (he grumbled mightily at the task, but I think he was actually not ill-pleased to have a chance to show he had other skills than forging swords and sharpening blades), and ever since I had saved it for special occasions.

Now I paused and gazed at it in my hand, considering. So much could happen in the hours to come; and if events fell out as they easily might, my precious stone might be a thing I would never wear again, lifelong, without remembering…

My fingers clenched around the stone that had come to represent a talisman. It had been the luckiest of chances that I had seen it at all: I had been staring into the stream, watching the waterweed swaying in the current and thinking how much it resembled the tail-hair of the Mother of Mares; and the sunlight had winked strangely on something, down there among the pebbles, so that I was moved to investigate. Ever since, I had looked on it as a gift.

"Mother, protect me," I whispered. Then with fingers that were less steady than I might have hoped, I fastened the thongs around my neck, and patted the stone to check that it sat to best advantage in the hollow at the base of my neck. It was all I had of beauty, and since the Mother had sent it to me I would wear it with pride, and bear whatever came after.

The sky was clear when I left the tent, but there was a haze across the stars low in the west. The afternoon had been too hot and still, and there was a fidgeting among the horses as I passed them that confirmed the prickle across my skin. Bad weather was on the way; it was well that all would be under cover this night. Others than myself had seen the omens – each horse had a heavy hood tied over its head, so that the lightning would not frighten them overmuch. The thunder, we could do nothing much to save them from, though the thick cloth would deaden the worst of it. All the world cowers when Bracu the Lord of Storms rides across the sky, hurling his spears of light at the evil spirits that stalk men as the warning growls of the giant wolf he rides echo across the plains. He is a fierce god, but a protector, Bracu; women paint the zigzag symbol of his spear on their bellies when they are with child, so that evil spirits are scared away from the babe within.

It was only as I walked towards the _kiwa-we_ that it came to me again that Malcolm's eyes were grey, like Bracu's. I had grown so used to them that I no longer noticed their colour, only their expression. It was true that their hue seemed to change with his mood; they were almost slate when he was angry or troubled, or a wonderful blue-grey when he laughed. Only once had I seen the freezing grey that meant death, though it was not a thing I was likely to forget… Some thought this was a reason to fear him, but I knew this for folly; did not storm-clouds show all variations of colour when they heralded the arrival of the God? Doubtless, however, it would be a subject much under discussion in the _acha-we_ , along with all the other details of the stranger's arrival and all that had happened since….

The _kiwa-we_ was crowded as I entered. The feasting had already started (it was never a formal affair for us, as there are no ranks among women as there are among men), and I moved to get a platter of food, hoping that I would be as anonymous among many as I usually was.

However, it was not to be. I should not have been surprised that Makia was waiting for me and rose to step in front of me. She did not bother to speak – she simply wanted me to see that she had made even more effort with her appearance than usual. She was as beautiful as the dawn after a night of rain; her dress was as supple as water poured down her curves, the neck open to display the beckoning swell of her breasts. What man, having gone hungry for as long as Malcolm had, would look aside when she crooked her finger?

My appetite was gone. I made a show of choosing food, but I took very little, and found a seat among the cushions where the lamplight did not fall at its brightest. It was my usual custom; only a few people, I think remarked on it, and it was soon forgotten in the happy babble of talk on the subject of the visitors. Nobody spoke to me, and I was left to my thoughts, and to the decision of whether to stay where I was through the evening and try to find distraction in the conversation around me, or to return to my tent, ignoring the empty furs beside mine, and try to sleep. The one thing I would not do was go to the _acha-we_. That pain, I could spare myself.

Only, now and again, my hand strayed to the stone around my neck.

I did not see Makia leave, but I knew when she had gone. Knew, too, where she was bound.

She had marked her prey, and was about to make her kill.


	28. Chapter 28: Reed

Over the course of _Enterprise_ 's voyage I'd had considerable experience of being a visitor in an alien society.

That helped me a great deal as I walked into the crowded _acha-we_ , if only by the familiarity of the flutter of apprehension in my guts at the company I now found myself in. No matter how seemingly harmless, friendly and welcoming any new species might be, I was always on edge, always waiting for the trapdoor to open. That – however irksome I know it was to Captain Archer – was my _job_. I wasn't _there_ to indulge in socialising, no matter what the occasion. I was there to protect him, and bloody hell, sometimes it was something I achieved in spite of him rather than thanks to his co-operation….

Still, one good thing about my days as the ship's security officer was that I was nearly always doing exactly that when we made contact – protecting somebody who was of far more interest to the aforementioned aliens than I was. It therefore followed that I wasn't the centre of attention, and that was exactly the way I liked it.

This was not, unfortunately, the case on that particular evening. I was centre stage with a vengeance, and couldn't help but be aware of how many eyes took an interest in even what I put on my platter. I hadn't been that hungry to begin with, and I know of old that a full stomach makes reactions slow, so even if I'd been famished I'd have rationed myself. Now, however, I was so tense with the awareness of dozens of fascinated stares that I could hardly bring myself to put a slice of meat near my mouth.

At least I'd found out that the Court Martial wouldn't be convened that night. I'd sort of envisioned it taking place at some point after the feasting, but Atreh said something along the lines of ale turning wise men into fools, and I suppose he had a point. I'd like to think that if I'd had one or two fewer Mai Tais on Risa I'd have known better than to follow even two delectable female aliens into a cellar…

Two other Tribe Lords had come to confer with Briai; I suppose they were the nearest, because as best I could get some estimate of the land where the People live, it must be absolutely huge, probably at least half the size of Europe. The three of them were sitting together, on camp-chairs (presumably this was some indication of their status specially for the occasion, because usually Briai sat with the rest on cushions on the ground).

The two visiting chiefs didn't feel themselves obliged to keep their eyes politely away from me either. They were both older than Briai. Thais, the oldest of the three, was a little, lively, bright-eyed chap who looked as though he might at any moment open his fur jacket and offer to sell you one of a few dozen fake watches pinned on the inside of it, cheap at twice the price. The middle-aged one, Rakhor, had the flat, unemotional stare of a plaice, and was almost as ugly as one.

If it hadn't been for Atreh and Bihiv, I don't think I could have stayed in there for longer than five minutes. I don't know if the two of them realised the depth of its effect on me. Probably not – they belonged here. But to me, a stranger and an alien who was so clearly distrusted, the pressure of so many eyes was just … utterly oppressive, filling me with something akin to panic.

I knew that I was actually perfectly safe, probably more so than I would have been anywhere else; even if I'd been a convicted serial killer, violence is forbidden in any village's _acha-we_. But that didn't conquer what soon became almost a compulsion to escape, and probably it was only due to the hard discipline of my upbringing that I was able to endure what I'd otherwise have fled from.

My two friends – it was no longer possible for me to think of them in any other terms – sat on either side of me as though by pre-arrangement, protecting me as best they could from the weight of attention. Slowly I forced myself to relax and join in their careful conversation. They were taking a proprietary interest in my progress in handling a sword, and thought it might help me to take on another of the warriors in a practice bout. Personally I was dubious as to whether I was ready for that yet, but Atreh insisted that it was important I learn to cope with different styles of attack, and there were others among the warriors whom he thought would be willing to help out with my tutoring.

The evening wore on. I finished my meal – such as it was – and presently Bihiv brought over one of the older men, a pleasant-looking chap whom he introduced as Orran. I won't say our initial conversation wasn't guarded as well as stilted, but I'd seen him watching me during my training and thought he was genuinely interested in how I was shaping up. Even despite my limited vocabulary, he seemed to understand that I was a weapons enthusiast; swordplay was a new field for me, and like any weapon it has its own expertise. Gradually the sensation of being under observation faded away, and the four of us settled down to what promised to be an enjoyable evening's drinking; swords are forbidden in the _acha-we_ , even practice ones, but Orran promised to join Atreh in teaching me the next day, and slowly a feeling that was almost companionable stole over me.

Now the meal was over, the women were allowed to join us, and there was no mistaking the way that the atmosphere changed. It seems that boys will be boys on any world, but the women gave every bit as good as they got. Naturally I didn't understand more than one word in ten, but certainly the women who came to visit knew what they'd be getting into and were more than prepared for it. If I'm honest it was somewhat of a revelation how sassy some of them clearly were. That it wasn't just empty bravado soon became clear when one lucky chap was the recipient of a very specific form of the glad eye from one of the ladies, and followed her from the tent wearing the look of a man who's expecting to enjoy the next few hours; needless to say, he was also the recipient of cheers and catcalls from the rest of us as he went. He was the first of a number to receive such an invitation, and I dived into the consolation of the bottle, trying not to feel the dull ache of envy. Jessa hadn't put in an appearance … I'd definitely overstepped the mark with her. It wasn't as if she'd ever given the slightest indication of finding me attractive; and then I'd had to jump in and kiss her right in front of everyone, showing about as much self-control as a bloody schoolboy.

Atreh and Bihiv joined in freely in the banter. I thought the former passed up a couple of opportunities, but Bihiv seemed to be the recipient of a lot of teasing and not much else. I wondered if there was some kind of 'age of consent' thing operating; he seemed easily old enough to be sexually active by now. Atreh, on the other hand, was considered one of the men, and as he was quite a good-looking bloke it was no surprise that he'd come in for his share of the slanting looks that evidently passed for an invitation in these parts, though he'd turned each of them away with a jest that seemed to rid the refusal of offence. I was honestly surprised he hadn't accepted any of them, and wondered if it was on my behalf – that he was reluctant to leave me with no better protection than Bihiv, although I was pretty sure by now that Briai wouldn't stand for any funny business with a guest.

Now, other people's romantic issues are not something I ordinarily get involved in; I'm the last person in the universe to be giving out advice on that topic. But it seemed to me that what was on offer here wasn't any hearts-and-violins stuff, and it seemed a damn shame for him to miss out on a bit of slap and tickle with a willing lass just because he thought I needed a watchdog. If needs be I'd just take myself back off to Jessa's tent and get an early night; I strongly suspected that the party would be going on till the early hours, and though I won't deny that occasionally on shore leave from _Enterprise_ I'd got as pissed as a newt, that was only when I was reasonably sure I was in safe territory. Here, the knowledge weighed me down that I was a stranger, constantly under suspicion. I felt like a cat in a room full of dogs. Well-behaved dogs, admittedly, but should one of them turn….

I mustered the best shot I could manage at tactfully hinting that he should pick up the next invitation that came his way, and go shag his brains out with my blessing. I was just nerving myself to introduce it into the conversation when a sudden tension in his previously relaxed body made me look to see what had startled him.

A number of other ladies had entered, and though all of them were reasonably attractive and most were dressed to thrill, I doubt whether there were many male eyes in the room that weren't drawn to one of them like iron filings to a magnet. Being male like everyone else in my present company, I couldn't help but look too – and having looked, I went on looking.

Over the weeks I'd learned quite a few names around the camp, and by now I knew that the resident beauty's name was Makia. I also knew that it was her brothers who had tried to carry out that strictly unauthorised interview with me, and it followed that her attitude to me since had been understandable. Quite how she felt I was to blame for the fact that they'd acted like a pair of pricks, I'd never quite worked out, but family loyalty is something I understand. One of them was dead, the other awaiting trial, and none of it would have come about but for my arrival. So in that respect, it was never likely that she was going to be one of my best friends. If I'd have thought it would have done any good (and had enough confidence in my command of the language) I'd have tried to tell her that I hadn't come here of my own accord and that I was sorry for the trouble I'd inadvertently caused; I _was_ sorry, genuinely sorry, because even if the two of them had been the cause of their own downfall, they hadn't been the only ones who'd suffered that day. If they hadn't been presented with a temptation they hadn't been able to resist, maybe the attack on the village would have been far less successful. Maybe the raiders wouldn't even have got near Syach, and the three men wouldn't have died; and the woman who'd lost her baby still went around the place with the grey look of defeat on her face….

I'm not sure what made me glance at Atreh. He'd looked at the women too, but he'd immediately looked down, and his face had frozen. Moments before he'd been laughing, but now he was like a man whose face had forgotten the mechanics of laughter.

The little knot of women dispersed, and were warmly welcomed of course. Particularly pressing invitations were extended to Makia, who appeared completely unconscious of the luscious spread of cleavage her dress exposed to view, and she disappeared into the throng, doubtless to choose some fortunate chap from among the visitors to summon for a more detailed viewing later on.

Leaving Atreh to recover from whatever emotion had him in its grip – I had an inkling by then of what it might be – I turned to Bihiv, intending to tease him about taking the initiative if any of the attractive newcomers happened to wander our way.

"Bloody hell." I'm afraid he'd learned a couple of English expressions of mine along the way, and that one never failed to fill me with guilty amusement when he came out with it. However, it didn't seem to me now that he'd said it in the jokey way he usually did. He was eyeing Atreh somewhat apprehensively, safe for the moment to do so as that angry young man had suddenly discovered he needed another drink and headed for the ale-barrel to get a refill.

I've mentioned before that anxiety was never far away from me, even when I was superficially relaxed. Hell, I did my best not to think about my situation more than I could help, because the sheer sense of helplessness was eating away at me; I've always preferred a situation where I can snatch the initiative somehow, whereas here there just seemed to be nothing I could do but wait – endlessly wait, for I knew not what; believing, sometimes even not far from _praying_ , that somehow I'd get to find out how I'd got here and how I could get back to my own life again.

Orran rumbled something. He was looking at Atreh too.

I hate it when I'm the only one who doesn't know something that everyone else does. My anxiety ratcheted up another notch. From outside, I heard the sudden low mutter of distant thunder, which drew an instant response from the men; they all muttered _'Bracoo!'_ and took hasty gulps of whatever they were drinking. Maybe it was the local version of 'Cheers!' – I hadn't heard it before. Though why anyone should toast a clap of thunder, I couldn't imagine.

The wind had got up in the last half an hour, pummelling the tents, and now it was no surprise that a sudden slash of rain flung itself on the canvas overhead. More followed, until it was a steady drumming. I knew that bad weather had been anticipated; I'd seen the preparations being made, and hadn't envied the lads who'd drawn guard duty over the horse herd that night. Consequently, nobody seemed to mind all that much, though the thunder got slowly louder and every now and then a particularly brilliant flash of lightning dimmed the torches. People who live in such close proximity to Mother Nature as the tribes do must get pretty used to her more violent moods, and certainly there was no noticeable diminution of the cheerful mood in the Tent. A few more couples wandered off to seek privacy, spurred on by raucous applause. None of the women was Makia.

Gradually, Atreh relaxed.

I relaxed too. Bihiv produced a few small, beautifully carved pieces of bone that seemed to have some relation to dice, although they were more complicated because as far as I could tell their different faces didn't represent numbers but concepts. It was definitely a game that was hugely popular among the People, because when he, Atreh and Orran started playing they quickly gained an audience, and a few other people joined in. I still couldn't grasp what was going on, except that it involved telling funny stories, and between the rapidity of their speech and the explosions of laughter, I could hardly make out more than a word here and there. But it didn't seem to matter. Everyone was having a great time, and for once nobody seemed to care, or even remember, that I was a foreigner. Shoulders pressed against mine without a thought, and even if I didn't understand the game I could still laugh along with everyone else, just savouring the precious feeling of fellowship. I hadn't fully realised until now just how much I'd missed it.

It was a thirsty evening for everyone; there would be sore heads all round in the morning. By comparison I'd been deliberately very sparing with the ale (especially in view of how little I'd eaten), but eventually even my cup was drained, and I quietly extricated myself from the group and went to dip another half-cupful. No more than that, I reminded myself.

The sense of being among friends again had lulled my caution, if not banished it completely. I was actually taken aback when someone stepped across my path, and it was a moment before I took in the fact that not only had Makia moved deliberately in front of me, but that she was directing at me one of those slanting, sideways glances that among the People are a free ticket to a strictly temporary Heaven.

Close up, she really was gorgeous. Her mouth was sultry, her deep blue eyes fringed with thick lashes, her long, wavy hair the colour of ripe barley. Her attractions further south would have got her pride of place on many a teenage boy's locker door. And I was a little … well, not drunk, but there was definitely an alcoholic gloss on my craving for belonging.

What if I _couldn't_ get home? Was I doomed to stay here for ever, the outsider, the stranger?

I wanted to forget. And her body promised forgetfulness, and more: much more.

I'd promised myself I'd be faithful to Hoshi. Fidelity was never my strong suit with women, but Hoshi … Hoshi was worth it.

But Hoshi was another world away. Hoshi almost certainly thought by this time that I was dead. And unless things changed in a way that right now seemed exceptionally unlikely, I might as well be as far as she was concerned.

Jessa. She hadn't shown up. She obviously hadn't been happy with my stupid move. Maybe if I'd … ah, what the hell was the point of wondering? My usual finesse with relationships had struck again, that was all. At some point I'd have to face her and try to patch things up, if that was even possible, but right now I just wanted something to take the pain away…. Even if it was just a temporary fix, I wanted _something._

I'd like to claim it was alcohol that painted the smile on my face, but if I'm honest it was lust. I didn't know why she'd suddenly decided to bestow her favours on me, but I wasn't about to refuse. Everyone had seen the offer; there were already catcalls and cheers around us. For that moment in time, I was a man among men, and the most beautiful woman in the place had picked me.

Her hand in mine was warm. Her smile in response was deliciously inviting.

"Sod that," I said, chucking the cup vaguely in the direction of the ale-barrel. "Got better things to do." It was in English, but I think most of my hearers got the gist, and cheered even louder.

It was up to me to wave the flag for humankind. And as I watched her perfect bum undulate towards the tent-flap in front of us, I was in no doubt that alien or not, I could run something up the flagpole that she'd salute good and proper.

Lightning flared, annihilating the darkness outside. Almost directly on top of it, the loudest bellow of thunder yet cracked like a cannon-shot at point-blank range, making everyone flinch.

The flash and the blast together seemed to split something open in my mind.

I wasn't in the tent at all; I was _somewhere else._ I was _someone else._ I was _something else._

Blood. Hot blood, streaming from hot raw flesh, filling my mouth. My teeth digging frantically, tearing off chunks I was almost too hungry to chew before I bolted them. Meat, so much meat; enough to feed every member of both packs for days. We hadn't even had to hunt. The 'sky-thing' high above had swooped low, roaring, and then the huge beast's head had simply exploded. The rest of the herd ran for their lives, and the last of them had hardly thundered past before we were all over the corpse, desperate find some way through its armoured hide to start feeding.

And hunger betrayed me. I didn't even look up as the sky-thing swooped again; I was too busy ripping into the best meal I'd had for weeks.

Then, without warning the world exploded in light and sound, and I was falling backwards: stunned, helpless, terrified.

I didn't recognise the creatures who came down from the sky-thing and bundled me into a net, dragged me from my pack and had me hauled up to be shoved into a cage. I didn't know I was a human and they had come to take me back to be one of the Section's killers. I had lost all the security in my world, because I'd let hunger rule me.

The memory was only with me for a second, but that second was enough to show me with absolute clarity the real danger I was in. Makia was no friend of mine; on the contrary, I was her deadly enemy. When she could have any man in the camp, why the fuck should she choose me? Not because she couldn't resist my masculine attractions, that was a fact. Now I was able to think again, I could imagine all too well what would follow if she and I were alone together and out of sight. All it would take was the accusation that she'd changed her mind at the last minute and I wouldn't take no for an answer. As neat and simple as that.

Rape.

And I'd so damn near fallen for it, hook line and sinker, like the greenest bloody amateur in the business!

My hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her up short. Her face as she turned was incredulous; I honestly think she'd never had anyone say 'no' before.

"Sorry, darling. Changed my mind." I smiled at her, and I knew the whole quality of my smile had changed. "You go tickle some other poor fish out of the pool. _I_ just got a sniff of the frying pan."

I was speaking in English but I didn't make the slightest effort to lower my voice. The scorn in it must have cut like a whip, but some of the lash was for me, because I'd been so criminally careless and so unutterably stupid. It wasn't as if I hadn't fucked enemies before, but never without securing my escape route first. Here, there _was_ no escape route, and but for one opportune crack of thunder and lightning I'd have walked straight into the trap, my eyes wide shut.

I threw her hand away, and wiped my palm on my clothes as though the touch of her soiled me. Then I pushed past her and stalked out of the tent, out into the turmoil of wind and rain.

Within half a second I was saturated. The rain was coming down in stair-rods, and the clouds above were stabbed with almost continuous half-hidden flashes as electric charge leaped from one roiling column to another.

I needed the storm. As I strode away between the tents, heading for open ground and not giving a toss for the danger this would place me in, something in me leaped to meet it, recognising its vast dramatisation of the grief and fury that were churning inside me.

The whole sense of fellowship had given way, my brief illusion crumbling like a rotten wooden bridge above a crevasse. I wasn't one of them; I never would be one of them. I'd never be accepted, never be trusted. I'd never belong. And I'd wanted for so long, and so desperately, to belong.

Finally, aboard _Enterprise_ , I'd found that belonging. I'd found Trip, who was the brother I'd never had. And I'd found Hoshi, who first exasperated, then intrigued, attracted and finally ensnared me. And even apart from those two, there was Captain Archer, whose over-familiar command style had at first been so alien to me, and Travis Mayweather, who I was fast coming to think of as not just a friend, but a _good_ friend. There was even T'Pol – maybe I was pushing it to feel that she regarded me as a friend, but I hoped the trust and respect I felt for her was mutual. And in my own team there was Bernhard, there was Em, there was Mark Darcy, there was …

There was a whole world I belonged to, and this wasn't it.

It never would be.

As soon as I'd got any sort of grasp of the People's language I'd tried desperately to find out how I'd got here. Nobody wanted to talk about it. Eventually, Jessa had told me I'd been found in a cave – some sort of holy place that the hunters had visited to ask for prayers to be said for the welfare of one of the women, who was having a difficult pregnancy. Of course, I'd wanted to know where it was; I wanted to go back to it, and see if I could find my way home. But not only would nobody tell me where it was (it was forbidden for men to even get close to it, let alone enter, unless they were priests), it was made absolutely clear that if I was even suspected of intending to go in there I'd be executed on the spot.

The latter part didn't worry me so much. I reckoned my Section training would stand me in very good stead when it came to sneaking in somewhere I wasn't supposed to be. But the People's absolute determination that I wasn't even going to find out where the bloody place _was_ , was a problem that seemed – for the present, at least – completely unsurmountable.

If I couldn't find out where it was, how could I go there? If I couldn't go there, how could I ever get in? And if I couldn't get in, how would I ever get home? And even if I found the way home, what fate would be waiting for me there? _Enterprise_ would be long gone. Would I return to my own 'world' only to die of hunger and thirst, alone in the dark on that godforsaken planetoid?

It had been a set of questions that gnawed at me – with ever-increasing urgency – with every day that passed. I didn't belong here. I belonged aboard _Enterprise_ , on the hunt for the Xindi. I won't go so far as to say that I wondered what the hell they'd get up to when I wasn't there to keep an eye on them, but I won't deny that something along those lines was an anxiety that only mounted as time went on.

Up till now, I'd managed to keep it fairly well under control; my situation wouldn't be helped by my giving way to my increasing desperation. There wasn't much I could actually _do_ except wait and hope that sooner or later fate would give me a break – little as I enjoy depending on chance, sometimes that's the only thing you can do. Now, however, the whole horrible situation rushed over me like a wave, and I simply had to get away by myself for a while.

I didn't go far. I found myself on rising ground, heading for the point where I'd been watching the herd – had it only been that morning? My feet slipped on the wet grass, making me stumble and lurch; once or twice I fell down, but I kept getting up again.

Habit of mine, that. Getting up again. But I get tired of it, so fucking tired. And that night I just felt that I had nothing left, nothing at all. I'd had a career, I'd had friends, and I'd been beginning to think that with Hoshi I might actually have a relationship that might last; and in the blink of an eye, I'd lost the lot. Gone.

I'd always been prepared for the possibility I might die on duty. My job entails that level of risk, and while I wasn't actually eager to die – whatever a certain Commandah Tuckah might think – I'd achieved a kind of peace with the idea; death is final and simple, and hopefully if mine was required, it would achieve something. Now, however, I felt as though I'd been robbed of something I'd never offered up. What had befallen me was neither final nor simple, and had achieved nothing; I wasn't _performing_ my duty, I was _abandoning_ my duty – the worst and most intolerable fate for a Reed. Everything that mattered had been taken from me, and I just couldn't handle it any more.

I got to the top of the rise. Below me, the herd was very restless. The flicker and glare of lightning played on the sea of backs, slick with rain. I didn't know where Syach was, but further down the ridge I saw Bradda, watching what looked as though it might become a concerted movement; after a few seconds he rode down, probably to head it off.

So that just left me up there: me, and the storm, which incredibly seemed to be getting stronger. The wind hit me in blasts, hurling rain at me so hard it stung every exposed surface of my body. The thunder bellowed overhead, and vivid forks of lightning split the darkness.

Blinded by the rain that drove straight into my face, I lifted my head and stared up into the clouds. I was too crazed to care, too mad with grief and rage and loss to give a damn any more.

"Well, here I am, God!" I screamed. "You fucking put me here, you make your mind up! Do I stay here or what? Is there any fucking _point_ to all this? Are you ever going to let me go home? Or am I just here to give you a fucking good laugh till one of these bastards puts a knife in my back?"

There was no answer, of course. Only the thunder, and the howl of my own aloneness.

I waited. The highest point for miles around, in the middle of a thunderstorm.

There was still no answer. And I was still alive when however long later the thunder finally started to diminish, and there were longer and longer intervals between the flicker of the lightning. The storm was starting to move off, its anger spent; but mine was still with me, lending an edge of recklessness to the final realisation that was it bloody well time for me to wake up and smell the coffee.

Given the present situation, the chances were that I'd never see _Enterprise_ again.


	29. Chapter 29: Archer

"I think you can go to your quarters now, Captain," Phlox said gravely, helping me up from the bio-bed. "As long as you rest for another twelve hours at least."

"Thanks." I rubbed my head. My hair must have looked like I'd been dragged through a hedge.

Much like me, in fact. I still couldn't get my head around the fact that I'd been shot with a phase pistol in the hands of my own Chief Engineer, though my body sure believed it; I was a mass of aches and pains.

Even harder to get my head around, however, was the fact that I'd come so close to wrecking the mission to save a bunch of Insectoid hatchlings. Looking back on it, I could remember thinking that nothing could possibly be more important than saving the helpless little creatures; I even thought their welfare could be a bridge between us and the rest of the Xindi.

Well, maybe that last part could have been a reasonable possibility. What I couldn't figure out, however, is how it could _possibly_ have seemed reasonable to doubt my own officers, how I could ever have gotten to the point of believing that they were wilfully endangering the mission. In hindsight, I was only surprised they waited so long before they staged the mutiny they did.

Maybe if Malcolm…

I pushed the thought away.

"You need a good night's sleep, Captain," Phlox said sternly as I walked – or probably staggered would be a better description – towards the doorway. "As your CMO I forbid you to return to duty before the start of tomorrow's shift."

"Sure, Doc," I said meekly. I hadn't the energy to argue. And I seemed to remember I'd disregarded his authority once already in a way that would have had me stripped of my captaincy if he'd made an official issue of it, so I wouldn't have argued even if I'd had the energy.

Besides which, right at that moment I felt as if I could sleep right through till tomorrow morning, no trouble at all.

I hadn't been able to spare the time or energy to eat while I'd been under the influence of those damned … neurochemicals, whatever the hell they were. It followed that I was hungry, and as I walked down the corridor I wondered whether it would be strictly contrary to orders if I made a quick detour to the Mess to catch something to eat. I wouldn't bother my steward, I'd just grab whatever was available, even if it was just a few sandwiches – Phlox had given me some soup, but that seemed like a long time ago, and I was sure I'd sleep a whole lot better on a full stomach.

The thought was followed, guiltily, by the act. When I reached the T-junction where I should – strictly speaking – have turned left and gone straight to my quarters, instead I headed for the door that was now nearly opposite me. It wasn't such a big detour, after all; I promised myself that I wouldn't be choosy, I'd just take the first dish and some cutlery and take it all back to my room. That way, I'd be following the doc's orders _more or less._

It was between standard mealtimes, so I knew there wouldn't be many people in there. Wouldn't take me half a minute to grab something. Chef's a decent guy, he knows that now and again someone just needs a snack.

Someone was in there already, grabbing a salad from the chiller cabinet. The rest of the room was empty, and I paused just for a moment before I set my hand to the door control. It was Hoshi, and she looked so tired and drawn that my heart lurched with guilt. If it hadn't been for me, she wouldn't be out here at all….

I pressed the control button just as she turned. Her free hand had just dropped to her belly, and stroked it in a movement that was utterly betraying.

I don't know which of us was more appalled as our eyes met.

She dropped the bowl of salad. Fortunately it was right above her tray, so most of the stuff didn't spill everywhere, and the tray was still on the counter – she had to grab it to make sure it didn't fall off, but I think the movement was purely automatic. The blood just drained out of her face as she stared back at me, her eyes huge and guilt-filled.

Maybe it was because I was so tired and felt so goddamn sick; I'd like to think that at any other time I'd act differently, but right then all I felt was a surge of anger – blind, overwhelming anger. The survival of Earth was resting on the shoulders of the ship's officers and crew, who were supposed to be the best Starfleet could offer, and my comm officer – one of my Alpha bridge crew – had gone and made a mistake like a damn high school teenager!

"We'll discuss this _in private_ , Ensign," I snapped, striding through the door. Food forgotten, I swung around and led the way towards my private Mess. I didn't for a moment imagine she'd want an audience for what was coming.

In a better, kinder world – in anywhere else, other than the Expanse – the sight of her white misery would have brought me to my senses. As it was, it just underlined the absolute folly of what she'd done. Along with whichever guy was responsible of course, and _he_ wouldn't enjoy the interview he'd have with his Commanding Officer the next morning.

Nevertheless, I gave myself time to collect my thoughts before I spoke. I walked to the viewing port and looked out at the rushing stars. All I could think was that somewhere out there were the Xindi, and that godforsaken weapon of theirs.

I made a determined, deliberate effort to keep my voice level when I spoke, but try as I might I couldn't keep a note of sarcasm out of it. "Would you mind telling me when you were planning on letting me in on your … little secret?"

For all her often meek appearance, there's a strong, hot core to Hoshi. And I'd evidently hit it. Her voice in reply was suddenly fiery, utterly at odds with her crushed appearance of a couple of moments ago. "I've tried once or twice, sir. In the last couple of days, as a matter of fact. But you were all wrapped up worrying about _Insectoid_ babies!"

I couldn't believe what I'd heard. I swung around and met her glare head-on with my own. "You're out of line, Ensign!"

"I know that, sir. But the fact is, it's the truth." She took a deep breath. "As far as everything else goes, I'm prepared to face the consequences of my actions. Moreover, I'm _absolutely_ prepared to carry on my duties for as long as this mission takes, and I'll make absolutely sure that this pregnancy doesn't interfere with them in any way.

"If that's good enough for you, Captain, fine. If not, you'll have to dismiss me from your staff and find yourself another comm officer. That's your choice. I've made mine."

I made another attempt to get a rein on my temper. "That's a lot of 'absolutelies', Ensign, but what does the father think about all this?"

The sudden twist of her mouth as her face contorted with grief told me, a split second before I realized what an insensitive asshole I'd been.

 _Oh. My. God. No._

 _SHIT!_

I turned back towards the viewing port and leaned my head against it. Behind me there was silence except for ragged breathing as Hoshi tried to fight back the tears she didn't want to let fall in front of me. Especially now I'd acted like a complete dick, even though I hadn't known.

I could have cried too, in that moment. It was all just too raw, too painful. Too many lives depending on me, and there didn't seem to be the luxury anymore of just being able to be Jonathan. Even this, even finding a young woman who meant so much to me in what must be an absolutely unbearable position – even this, I had to filter through the all-encompassing demands of _the mission._ I couldn't stop. I dared not. There was too much at stake.

So – tears being out of the question, and humanity a thing of the past – I got a hold of myself somehow. For just one moment of luxury, I felt the pain. And then I wiped the traces of it off my face and turned around again, my expression as hard as I could make it.

"I don't see how you can possibly claim that this won't affect your duties, Ensign," I said coldly. "In case you weren't aware of it, motherhood isn't included in the deal when you sign up to serve on a starship. And on this particular starship, on this particular voyage, we just don't have the facilities and we don't have the time.

"I want you to make an appointment with Phlox and get rid of it."

For a second, she didn't even look horrified. She just looked _incredulous._ Like she couldn't believe I could be so callous as to order her to kill a dead man's child.

Time was when I'd have been incredulous myself. But that was a time somewhere before a weapon appeared out of nowhere above the Earth and killed seven million people. And for the sake of the remaining millions who would die when the real thing put in an appearance, I couldn't afford to let anything – _anything –_ jeopardize the performance of every man or woman on the ship.

It wasn't like it was one of the maintenance team, or the Quartermaster's assistant. No, it was my top comms officer, the one I'd have to rely on the hardest when it came to deciphering Xindi communications – if we ever got to track the bastards down. I couldn't have her with half her mind on whether she'd felt the baby kick, or puking when she should be reporting for duty.

She'd hate me for it for the rest of her life. Not as much as I'd hate myself, but that's one of the hard truths of sitting in the Big Chair: you get to be the bastard with the power, and live with the consequences.

When she spoke again, it was through stiff lips, as though she was having to remember how to talk. "You do … you do realize it's Malcolm's."

"And he's dead. Yes. I do realize that."

Her hands clamped over the gentle swell of her abdomen. Her expression metamorphosed into one of absolute hatred. "No."

"Ensign. I don't want to have to make it an order."

"You can order me all you want, Captain. I refuse. And Phlox won't be your executioner this time."

She couldn't have hit harder if she'd struck me with a _bat'leth._ And she meant it to hit, and hurt. She'd gotten more from Malcolm than his child: she'd gotten his ability to hit hard and low, with brutal efficacy.

I should have foreseen it, but how could I have known back then? A quick calculation – yes, she must surely have known she was pregnant when Sim was created. At the time it had been a neat solution all round for her to spend time in Sickbay with him, teaching him the fluent colloquial English he'd never learn from Phlox. When what it had actually been doing was exposing her to a baby, one who grew with astonishing rapidity into a charming child and thence into a sweet, affectionate boy, before achieving the adulthood that had to be so cruelly cut short when it was already – god knows – short enough.

Cut short, of course, on my orders. To save _the mission._

There were times when I wondered if I'd ever sleep soundly again.

I had to swallow once or twice, mostly to give myself time to control the red mist that had dropped down across my eyes. It would be so easy – far _too_ easy – to make Hoshi the target for all my frustration and anger. Sure, she'd struck out in a way that was calculated to do the maximum damage, but she was defending her unborn child. Any mother turns into a tigress when her baby's threatened.

Any other time, _any_ other time, I'd have been right there alongside her, fighting for her right to choose, and – if that was what she wanted – fighting for all that was left of Malcolm Reed.

But this wasn't any other time. This was here and now, this was the Expanse, and there were no choices. Not for me.

"Hoshi." With an enormous effort, I made my tone reasonable. She wasn't dumb; she couldn't possibly think the risk worth it, once she'd thought it through. It must be the hormones. I knew pregnant women can be … well, a bit wayward. Especially in the first few months.

…How far along was she?

…Not that it mattered.

"What?" she snapped.

"Hoshi, you…. Look. Think about it. We haven't got … Damn it to hell! Hoshi, everyone back home is _relying_ on us. We've got a whole _world_ depending on us, maybe the whole of _humanity_ , and you want to risk it all for a baby who won't even have a father?

"Fact is, we don't know how long it's going to take us to find these Xindi. It might take us months. Then say we come across them just as you go into labor. Our best chance of eavesdropping on their communications, maybe finding out what their plans are, even where the weapon's being built, and it's all lost because the one person who could make sense of their damn language is in Sickbay giving birth!"

Her gaze back at me seemed aimed through the slits of a concrete bunker, though maybe that was just me being fanciful. "I wonder if you'd think differently if it was yours."

I drew a deep breath. For just a moment, I dared to think she might be weakening just a little. "I'd like to think so. I really would."

Evidently, I'd been completely wrong. Her lip curled. "But it's not yours, captain. It's mine and Malcolm's. He's not here to say one way or the other, and I've already told Phlox I want to keep it.

"If you can't believe in me enough to trust me to do my job, that's your problem, not mine. But I'm not the weakling you evidently think I am. I know I can do this and I know I can do everything you or the mission asks of me, even if I am pregnant. Now it's just up to you to decide whether you believe that or not – or whether you really weren't as smart as you thought you were when you came all the way to Brazil because you wanted the best in the business."

There was absolutely no point in making it an order. I already knew she'd refuse outright. In this mood, she wouldn't give a damn about the stain on her otherwise spotless service record. And even if she could be talked around somehow (though I didn't see the slightest hope of it), now she'd spoken to Phlox I could practically guarantee having him accuse me of conduct unbecoming an officer, and refusing to have anything to do with the termination.

 _Conduct unbecoming._ Jesus. I was already a liar, a torturer, a would-be murderer. Where any of those fitted into the expected conduct of an officer, I'm damned if I know. And I didn't need a crystal ball to tell me we weren't finished yet; if I believed in the devil, I could imagine him laughing in hell at the high hopes I'd had when _Enterprise_ set out on her maiden voyage.

She was waiting for my response. Now that she wasn't making any effort to disguise her pregnancy, I was just surprised I'd never noticed it earlier; she's so slender, and the Starfleet uniform is close-fitting. There was quite a noticeable change in her outline, and I guessed a few people around the ship would already have been putting two and two together. As for the father, well, I didn't know how many people realized she and Malcolm were an item – I certainly hadn't, but then I'd had my mind on other things. Like trying to make sure Earth wasn't blown into a million pieces, for one. Which I guessed was some kind of an excuse for not noticing what had evidently been going on right underneath my nose.

Suddenly I was absolutely worn out. Too worn out to fight anymore. Seemed like Hoshi'd set her sights on adding yet another risk to a voyage that was already too damn full of risks – as the baby's father had discovered, just under three months ago.

"Go on, get out of here," I growled.

"Captain." Without further words, she spun on her heel and walked out.

A part of me, the part that used to believe I was a decent man, wanted to run after her and try to apologize; at least try to make her understand how much I hated myself for the part I was having to play. But I didn't think there were any words to mend what I'd just done, and that was just another burden I'd have to carry. At least Hoshi would be rid of hers at the end of the nine months. Mine would be fastened around my neck for the rest of my life.

Slowly I sank down into one of the chairs at the table, and dropped my head into my hands.

Just when had I become a monster?


	30. Chapter 30: Jessa

In the end I stayed at the _kiwa-we_.

It cannot be claimed it did me much good, however; most of the women eventually wandered over to the _acha-we_ , and those who were left were mostly mothers more interested in the doings of their children and the care of their infants than in the company of menfolk. As we had little in common, I could not join in their conversation, and so was left largely to my own thoughts, which were poor company.

But eventually I realised that it would grow no easier to face my half-empty tent, no matter how long I waited. It seemed from the milder note of the rain on the canvas above that the storm was near its end; surely if I hurried, I would not get so very wet on the way to the latrine pit and back…

Others had the same notion. The _acha-we_ too was starting to empty as I passed it, most of the men stumbling a little from much good food and ale, but good-humoured enough as they too headed for the pit. I evaded a couple of playful grabs without difficulty; I was not in the mood, just then, for barbed banter.

I had banked up the fire before I left, and it was the matter of moments to coax it back to life. For a little while I sat beside it, feeding it with twigs, for no better cause than to put off the inevitable moment when I must lie down alone and think of all those in the camp who did not; of one, among all, who was doubtless even now glorying in her triumph…

At last I heaved a sigh. It was late, and I was tired. Maybe tiredness would help me not to think, and above all not to feel.

After banking down the fire again, I took off my festival clothes and folded them neatly in the kist. Tomorrow it would be workaday wear again, and another day to endure.

I slithered hastily in among the furs. The storm had brought cooler air to the plain, and I was glad of the fire's small gift of warmth and the luxury of the coverings.

I was just settling down when I realised I had not taken off my precious necklace. It would not be proper to sleep in it, as though it were not a thing to be treasured, so I sat up quickly, and my hand went to the green stone on its thong around my neck. I do not think I prayed; I am not sure there were any words in me, just then.

But that moment the tent flap was flung back, and Malcolm strode in, startling me.

I think we startled each other. I had not expected to see him before dawn, and I guessed he had thought I would be asleep long since.

He stopped, just inside the tent. The last of the fire glow showed me his face, and I thought Bracu walked in his eyes, those grey eyes that for me were like no other in the world.

He held my gaze.

His clothes were soaking. With strong, deliberate movements he began removing them, letting them lie where they fell.

All of them.

Ai! he was beautiful. And he had not been to Makia's tent. He had been communing with his Father, and was now returned to the world of mortals.

I do not _think_ my hand was shaking as I took hold of the fur that still partly covered me and pushed it down – right down, though my heart was beating so hard in my breast that I thought it might burst. I watched his gaze rake me, and saw his desire rise to meet mine.

Mother of Mares! When I am old I shall still grow warm, thinking of that night: the night for which I had waited so long, unknowing. All of the village could have heard the joy in me as my stallion covered me again and again, and _vhé!_ if the comments in the _acha-we_ next day were anything like those in the _kiwa-we_ , I am very sure the menfolk of the village had more than somewhat to say on the topic of Syach's brother come among them.

We slept eventually, entwined, and woke so. And I was later than usual making breakfast, and that too took longer to eat than it ordinarily did, because it seemed that lost time had to be made up for. Nobody disturbed us, though more than a few made occasion to pass by and shout rude comments, which we hardly heard and did not heed…

However, every day has its duties, and one of mine beckoned; one that I had feared might never fall due, but which now was endowed with a most glorious significance. I took a certain piece of carefully embroidered linen from the bottom of my kist, swept it reverently across the place where my maidsblood had been shed, and then knelt to place it carefully in the fire. As it caught and flared up, I bowed my head to my knees and entreated the Mother of Mares to send me a strong colt or a beautiful filly. I know that I cried as I spoke the words, all the longing in the world behind them.

Malcolm was leaning up on one elbow, watching me thoughtfully. I should have washed and dressed, but as I rose he threw back the fur cover in unmistakable invitation; and how could I refuse?

The fires that had burned between us had burned low for just a little while. Instead I simply cuddled up to him, cradled in his arms, feeling the strong life in him and listening to the heartbeat in the chest where my cheek rested.

His kiss dropped on the top of my head, light as a butterfly, and I thought my heart would burst with bliss.

"Hope Jessa happy." His voice was low. I felt it vibrate through his chest.

Mother of Mares! I had not thought it possible to hold him any tighter, but I managed it. "I am beyond happy," I said.

After a moment I lifted my head and peered at him. I thought he seemed content, but there was a stillness about him that had not been there before. "Is LefTenAnt happy?"

The smallest, saddest half-smile momentarily touched his face before tenderness banished it. "Not LefTenAnt now," he said. "Just Malcolm."


	31. Chapter 31: Jessa

Despite my new-found joy, everyday life had to go on, and there were the everyday things that must be done; and if truth be told I was not unwilling to go to the _kiwa-we_. Few things are private in the village, and a maid's initiation into womanhood is rarely a secret. Certainly anyone who had not heard us last night would have heard about it by now, and since Bihiv and Atreh had come to summon Malcolm to eat in the _acha-we_ 'since long labour drains a man', I already knew that he could expect more comment there – a great deal, and all of it bawdy. I could only hope that he would take it in the spirit in which it was intended, but as he walked away between them, laughing at whatever they were whispering in his ear, I thought him well enough prepared.

I was on my way to the _kiwa-we_ when I heard a well-known voice calling me. I looked around, surprised; normally Briai would give me no more than a friendly nod in passing, though I knew that if I needed his ear then he would give it as willingly as he would to any one of the People.

He too looked as though it had been a long night. I wondered if he wanted some of my medicine to help ease a headache; men will be men and chiefs will be chiefs, and doubtless there had been some foolishness as regards matching each other cup for cup. Though Briai was normally an abstemious man – I had heard him remark on more than one occasion that ale is a good friend of folly.

But as we reached each other, it seemed that he had more on his mind than medicine. He looked down at me thoughtfully, and seemed to consider for a moment before he spoke. "I have heard that our guest shared your bed last night – I believe, for the first time. And I see from your face that it is so. You are like a flower in the dawn."

It was nothing of which to be ashamed. I answered him readily, though I was blushing a little rosily at the unexpected compliment. "It is true, Lord."

He nodded, as one who is unsurprised. However, although I expected him to leave it at that, it seemed that he had more to say – more than would come readily to his tongue, for he had the air of choosing his words with great care. Presently, he spoke, slowly and with weight. "Jessa, I have not forgotten his actions in saving the village from great harm, and Atreh maybe from death. I believe him to be a good man, and I am glad he has given you joy among the furs. But he may yet be one of The Others, and his motives are yet hidden from me. Has he said aught to you of from where he came?"

"Almost nothing," I said honestly. "I know that he had a woman there, and … that he cared for her." The knowledge twisted in my heart, but he was a man grown, and if I had ever doubted whether he had known a woman's body intimately, last night would have banished that notion. "And at first he wished to go back to the Sacred Cave, saying he wanted to go home, but I told him that way was to nowhere but death. And that I would not take him there, and nor would anyone else."

Briai's eyes widened a little. "He said his home was inside the Sacred Cave?"

I thought carefully. "Those were not his words. He asked where he had been found, and I told him. Then he asked to go back there, so that he could find his way home. He was not good with our words then, it was hard for both of us to understand one another. But that was what I understood him to mean."

"And has he asked again since?"

"No. Though he may have spoken of it to Atreh."

"He has done so. Recently." He saw my look, and said gently, "It is not a thing to be held against any man, that he wishes to go home. He is not one of the People, Jessa. My only concern is who his people are, and what information he would take to them if he found his way back. And above all, whether he was sent on purpose to obtain that information, as a prelude to an attack."

"That would make him a traitor," I said passionately. "He is not, Lord. I would stake my life that he is not! He is an honourable man."

"He is certainly a reckless one." Seeing my incomprehension, he smiled a little drily. "I take it he made no mention of what passed in the _acha-we_ between him and Makia last night."

A small cold fist of fear tightened around the warmth in my breast. "No. What happened?"

The smile became even drier. "Makia invited him to her tent. At first, it seemed he accepted, but just as they reached the door Bracu's Wolf spoke, and for some reason – maybe it seemed to him a warning – he changed his mind. He flung away her hand, and spoke in his own language; none knew what he said, but the meaning was plain enough. And then he went out into the rain, alone.

"Bradda saw him later, up on the hill. Still alone. And the next anyone hears of him, he is in your tent and in your bed.

"I make great allowances for the behaviour of a man who is in a most difficult situation, Jessa, but there are those in the village who see more behind his actions than mere unhappiness. This is why I have summoned my brother chiefs. If he is indeed one of The Others, he may be able to provide us with much valuable information. This could be the difference between survival or death for us all."

"And if he is not one of The Others?" I asked desperately.

"Has he denied to you that he is?"

"We have not spoken of it."

He looked at me, closely and carefully. "You would tell me of it if he did."

His not-quite-question stung me. For all that I have brown eyes, I am one of the People. Making no effort to hide the fire-flash, I raised them to his face and gave him back look for look. "I would tell you, Lord, word for word. But there is nothing to tell. I trust him with my life and with the lives of the People and the Horses."

He nodded, seeming satisfied with the reply, though he still looked at me keenly. "The council will be summoned after the evening meal. You will be called to speak, and you must answer honestly any question you are asked. He will also be called to speak. I know that he has little of our language, but he must try."

"He will do all that he can. I know it."

Another nod, and he moved to turn away, but checked and turned back. "Jessa, I would not have you hurt. I know that the heart goes where it will, but this man is not one of us. And – it was not wise of him to make an enemy of Makia."

"She was his enemy already," I returned angrily. "She wished to invite him to her tent for no other reason than that she wished to hurt me, and I thank Lord Bracu that his Wolf gave him a warning, however it came. As for my heart…" I swallowed, but lifted my chin. "As you say, it goes where it will."

There was no more to be said, and we went our separate ways. As I entered the _kiwa-we_ I received the anticipated reception, and for a while the subject of the evening's council went away from me; but later it returned, and would not be dismissed. Malcolm would be questioned, carefully and closely, and if he was not believed, he would be pressed hard. Maybe, if enough still doubted, he would be tortured, to make him reveal what I truly believed he did not know.

Makia was not in the _kiwa-we_ , nor anywhere around the tents that I could see. And strangely, Roish was also missing.

Maybe it was a coincidence.

And maybe it was not.


	32. Chapter 32: Sato

It was completely surreal – encountering the descendants of our 'other selves' from an unsuccessful attempt to travel through the subspace corridor to join Degra at the Xindi Council.

I'd been looking through the database. I'll be honest, it freaked me out a little, to think that this other _Enterprise_ – the one I could see hanging in space only a short distance from our own – had been the home of another 'me'. Mother to two children, whose names I now knew, but who'd been the father of the second? Toru was a name I'd always liked, and that I'd already considered for the child I now bore; not only because of its primary meaning 'sea', in tribute to its father's Royal Navy heritage but also because of its associated historical meanings 'wayfarer' and 'penetration' (Malcolm would definitely have appreciated that last one!). But as for Yoshiko ('good child'), that was unimaginative to say the least. It had a creepy suggestion about it that Other Hoshi hadn't cared all that much, and that was a feeling I could understand. Boy, could I understand it.

I didn't even know if I'd married the second guy, whoever he was. I didn't want to know. Because Malcolm was dead, and I could imagine all too easily that it wouldn't have mattered a damn to me who I'd had to produce another child by.

At a guess, my descendants – _our_ descendants – were somewhere around the ship. I could have traced them, but I didn't make any attempt to, and I was thankful they didn't seek me out either. It would have just been too painful if somehow the gods of genetics had thrown up a child with gray eyes and high, aristocratic cheekbones, and I was just coming up on my fifth month of pregnancy; I've always taken care of my figure, and although I was by no means grotesquely swollen yet, I was having trouble coming to terms with the additional bulk. Pregnancy in the abstract is just fine – but in the flesh it sure takes some living with. At least that's how I experienced it.

Maybe it was selfish of me, but there was a lot going on for me right then, including the speculation over who my child's father had been. Considering the fact that the ship had been attacked and all but destroyed, a good number of the crew had been killed, and the survival of what was left of us hung by a thread, an extraordinarily large number of people seemed to be taking an extraordinary amount of interest in who the lucky man had been. Maybe it was a distraction, I don't know. But it was definitely a pain in the ass for me.

I supposed Other Hoshi had probably loved both of her kids, because it wasn't their fault who their fathers were, but I couldn't help but feel that this was an extension of Jon's horrible monomania with _the mission._ A 'generational ship' was a glossy term for a breeding colony.

How much choice had the officers and crew had, in those terrible hours when they realized their mission had failed, and that they'd never see their homes and loved ones again? How much pressure had they been placed under to pair up and breed, a Noah's Ark wandering the Expanse, with their entire existence nailed down to _the mission_?

I wasn't the only one freaked out over it all. Trip was really struggling over Lorian, who in my opinion had inherited the worst of his mother's Vulcan characteristics and seemed to display little of his father's sweet nature – though admittedly he'd certainly inherited his genius with engineering. That said, Trip was in the worst state of any of us to cope with any more shocks. First he'd lost Lizzie and then he'd lost Malcolm; he was all screwed up over T'Pol (yes, he'd confided that to me a while ago), and as for what was going on between the two of us, I don't think either of us understood it, or indeed had the capacity to worry about it. Now and again we ended up in bed, and I wasn't going to put a stop it because just then it was a tiny oasis in a desert of misery and fear. Sure, the first time I'd been consumed with guilt, but once the deed's done once it's so easy to slip and do it again. And again, when there's no comfort anywhere else…

And besides, Malcolm was dead. There was no sense in staying faithful to a memory.

T'Pol wasn't doing much better. I wasn't sure if there hadn't been some residual damage from her exposure to Trellium-D aboard the _Seleya_ , but she sure wasn't her former stoic and reliable self anymore. Sometimes I caught her eyeing my swelling belly as though she was contemplating joining the ranks of those wanting to know who the father was, but she didn't ask. Though I'm sure I didn't imagine her drawing in soft, deep breaths as I walked past sometimes, as though trying to smell a foreign scent on me; and now and again when she caught me talking to Trip (even a completely above-board conversation that anyone could have heard) she looked daggers at me. If she didn't know, she definitely suspected. At a guess, when the baby was born she'd be first in the queue into the delivery room, and not to demand to be its godmother.

What would have been the point of admitting that Trip and I shared a bunk now and then? What would it have achieved to tell her that I wasn't dreaming of him and he wasn't dreaming of me? We were both just trying to deaden the pain for a couple hours, that was all.

And heck, she'd chosen to push him away. Maybe her reasoning for that seemed sound enough to her – she was a Vulcan after all – but from the way she was behaving now, I wasn't sure it was working out the way she'd expected.

Though on the other hand, she was also showing signs of harboring less than properly detached emotions towards the captain. (Travis, for one, was firmly of the opinion that she'd fallen for him big-time, and if that was so then she was one messed-up lady and had no room whatsoever for pointing any accusing fingers at _us._ ) When he'd been captured by the Xindi and the truth dawned on all of us that we'd lost him, she'd effectively abandoned her post on the Bridge. When Trip went into the Ready Room after her, presumably to remind her that she was needed out with the rest of us, he came back out looking as though he'd been kicked in the guts. I remembered looking across at Em Gomez (holding Tactical just then, because Bernhard was up to his eyes trying to make sure the Armory was as prepared as it could be for the fight for our lives that we knew was coming next), and she was just ice, but I could tell by her gray face that she was preparing herself for being the ranking officer on the Bridge when the attack came; Trip would have to hold Engineering together, as best he could. Our captain was gone, and our commanding officers were falling apart.

Now, it all seemed to have happened a long time ago, for all it had only been a couple of weeks. I put my hand on my belly as I stared out across at that other _Enterprise_. We'd survived the attack that had indeed followed, though many of the crew hadn't; it had been a miracle that Travis wasn't killed when that support fell from the ceiling across the Helm station. But we'd got the captain back too, and the thread of our luck still held. So far. But none of us were under any illusions about how desperately slender a thread it was.

And the baby was still alive. Indeed, as I rested my hand now on the fabric of the maternity-style uniform that the quartermaster had produced for me, I felt the barest flutter under my hands, like I'd swallowed a butterfly.

I'd felt it a couple of times before, but it was always such a tiny, brief sensation that I'd been afraid it was just wishful thinking on my part. This time, however, there was no doubt about it.

Malcolm's baby had kicked beneath my fingers.

Tears sprang to my eyes. If only he was still here. If only he could have shared it with me.

My head dropped against the viewing port. I was trying so hard to be strong for both of us, but sometimes – sometimes, how desperately I needed his strength.

At first I hadn't believed it when the captain made the announcement that Malcolm was dead. He'd just seemed somehow … indestructible. Always careful, though, always weighing up the risks, though too damned ready to shoulder them all rather than let anyone else get hurt. Then I got angry; how _could_ he, how _dared_ he, be so damned stupid as to let himself get killed? Finally there was just the pain of loss. He was gone, gone for good. We hadn't even had a body to put in that damned torpedo tube so that I could have touched him just one last time and told him – even if he was long past hearing it by then – what I should have told him when he was alive. And he'd left me in such a damned predicament, the one where I could done with his support most of all.

"Oh, Malcolm," I whispered. "Why the heck did you have to go down that damned mine?"


	33. Chapter 33: Reed

The _acha-we_ was just as packed as it had been last night, but as I walked in I realised the whole atmosphere was different.

The warriors were seated differently, for one thing. Now they were all facing towards where the three chiefs were seated side by side in the largest clear space that the numbers allowed. There didn't seem to be any particular order of precedence or allegiance; the men were simply seated in neat rows, evidently under orders to sit and listen and observe. Women, unless invited to give evidence, were not allowed.

Atreh had told me what to expect. Zelav's trial would be much like any trial on Earth, if less formal: the chief participants would make their statements, after which they would be questioned, and then witnesses would be called, who would also be questioned. At that point the proceedings would be opened to the floor, and anyone in the crowd who had a point to make or a question to ask would be allowed their say. Finally, the three chiefs would retire to deliberate before announcing the verdict – Briai, as the chief of the tribe in whose village the offence had taken place, would have the final say; the other two were mostly there in an advisory capacity.

Once that was over, it would be me on trial. Not for what I'd done, but for what I was. Or rather, what I might be.

It had taken some effort to comprehend the grounds of their suspicion of me, but once I'd got my head round it, I could see their point. If there was indeed a hostile tribe somewhere, persistently rumoured to have unfriendly intentions, then the arrival of a stranger, in strange clothes, talking an unknown language, and with no explanation of how he'd got there, was bound to set tongues wagging.

It explained a great deal about their treatment of me when I'd arrived. Atreh had been honest with me – which I appreciated, in a weird sort of way – and admitted that if events had fallen out otherwise he would have interrogated me on the first day to try to find out as much as he could about me. It would hardly have been appropriate for me to say, _'You could have tried'_ , although after the Section's training I very much doubted whether he'd have got anything out of me that I hadn't wanted him to get, even if I'd known a word of the language. However, I hadn't been able to refrain from asking a probably stupid question. "I not one of The Others. Do you believe?"

He'd studied me for a long moment, and then put his thumb to his chest. "Heart believes. Head–" He paused. It was a long pause. "Head does not know."

His honesty hurt, but I had the feeling it was a compliment to me, and I thought it cost him something. "Do you have idea what Briai thinks?"

"Briai has called a council. He will not say until afterwards. But whatever his heart believes, a chief must think with his head."

 _'A chief must think with his head'._ I watched Briai as I walked up the narrow lane that had been left towards the entrance. I hadn't spoken to the chap much, but throughout the weeks I'd been here I'd often been aware of his steady regard. It was clear to me by now that he was enormously respected by the villagers, and I thought he deserved it. He wasn't one of those who felt any need to micro-manage affairs; he usually left people to live their own lives, but he was attuned to everything, and could be relied on to intervene very swiftly and decisively in a crisis. He'd have made an excellent starship captain if I was any judge, though a quite different one to Captain Archer.

Atreh was behind me. It seemed that although ordinarily there was no such thing as legal representation, he was being allowed to help me because I didn't speak the language fluently. For by no means the first time, I silently cursed the fact that I hadn't been carrying a UT when I fell down that damned crevasse; though of course even if I had been, it might well not have been programmed with this language or anything even like it.

I didn't even know what world I was on. I'd tried one evening to find out what the people called themselves, or even their world, and it had been clear they didn't understand the question and were puzzled by my asking it. They were simply The People. As for their world being a planet that required a name, that was a completely alien question. Where a human would think of themselves as being on Earth, one of the People would think of themselves simply as being 'here'.

In my leisure moments – there were plenty of jobs to be done that allowed my mind to roam while my hands were occupied – I'd tried desperately to imagine how I'd come to be where I was. I supposed it was possible that I'd travelled in time somehow, and that I'd been dumped at some point in the long-ago history of the planetoid where the mine had been; presumably when it was attached to a star, because there was no doubt that this world, whatever and wherever it was, was in a gravitational orbit, not wandering through space as the other had been. Maybe at some point there had been a collision that knocked it out of its solar system, though it was hard to imagine a collision of that magnitude leaving anything as relatively spherical as the one we'd investigated in the Expanse. As far as I could remember, T'Pol hadn't said anything during the briefing about any evidence of a past catastrophic impact, and she was usually very sound at mentioning that sort of thing even if only in passing. However, the planetoid was small, not much larger than Mercury, and we'd seen no evidence that it had ever been sustained life other than the Xindi who came to mine there. And though of course I'd no scientific instruments with which to confirm or deny my theories, I suspected that the world I was on was at least Earth-sized and possibly bigger.

So, if it wasn't simple time travel, it must be locational travel of some kind (or maybe locational _and_ time travel – that would be just my luck). Given some of the insane things we'd seen in the Expanse, there was no saying what sort of bloody game it had chosen to play with me. I was on a planet _somewhere_ and possibly _somewhen._ There wasn't even any guarantee that time here followed the same rules as it did in 'my' world; I remembered all too clearly Ambassador Soval's warning that the rules of physics did not apply in the Expanse, and presumably time could be affected like all the other rules of an orderly universe. Theoretically, a year could pass there for every day here, or vice versa; a hundred or even a _thousand_ , once the rules were out of the window. Was I still in the same galaxy? Was I still in the same _universe?_ I had no way of knowing and, worse still no way of finding out.

That discovery made trying to explain my own advent very tricky. If the People had no idea that they inhabited a world that circled a star – just one among uncounted numbers of stars – then the concept of a ship that travelled among those stars was going to be an impossible one for them to grasp. Even _I_ was struggling with the idea that I'd presumably fallen down some kind of 'worm-hole' that transported me here without so much as a by-your-leave, so how the hell they'd cope with it I couldn't imagine. So the truth was out of the question.

On the other hand, although I was more than capable of producing a backstory for myself that would fit into their very simple terms of reference, I still had to account for my presence here. And there was the prospect of invasion colouring their suspicions of me. I wasn't one of the 'Others', whoever they might be, and I was pretty sure that a sizeable body of opinion around the village thought by now that I was innocent of any ill intentions. But it remained to explain who I _was._ And that wasn't a prospect I relished, because since I couldn't tell the truth I'd have to tell a suitably modified version of it.

Well, yes. I'm not proud of the fact that in the service of the Section I became an accomplished liar, but the truth is that I was quite confident that I could suppress practically every one of the little giveaways that betray someone who's lying. The problem was that I didn't _want_ to lie to these people – certainly not to someone I'd grown to like, and above all to someone I respected.

I'd just have to play it by ear. And in the meantime, there was Zelav's trial to be got through first.

Atreh had given me a quite thorough grounding in the protocol, such as it was. Reaching the clear space in front of the seated judges, I bowed to them politely and stepped to the side, where I sat down.

Next, Zelav was brought in. He looked worn by his confinement, but the look he shot at me under his brows was enough to tell me that if he hadn't truly been my enemy before, he certainly was now. He was still imprisoned by the bar holding his wrists apart, and his bow to the judges was perfunctory at best before he took his place opposite me. Since he was the one on trial, however, he remained standing.

Atreh had been placed in charge of the village that day, so it was his task to set the scene for the judges and the audience, most of whom were unacquainted with the details even if they had the basics. He did so calmly and clearly. Obviously I didn't understand a lot of it, but I'd picked up enough by then to get the gist, and I could tell that he was sticking carefully to the facts, without offering any opinion of his own regarding motives or suchlike. It was a professional performance, and although I'd have rather liked him to throw in a bit of subtle shading as regards the fact that I'd been the victim here (which I bloody well _had_ been, on anyone's terms), I admired him for steering a course that prevented anyone from being able to accuse him afterwards of bias. He also refrained from going into any detail about the fight against the Outcasts afterwards, and although I felt that would have gone a long way towards establishing my good character, I could understand why: that would be discussed later, when it was me, not Zelav, who was on trial. I was quite sure anyway that all of the judges were aware of it already, which was what mattered.

When the summing up was complete, the judges took time to consider.

Rakhor was the first to open the questioning. His fish-eyes hadn't moved from Atreh. "You ordered the brothers to stand guard. But they [must surely] have been [concerned] for the woman's safety." He spoke as slowly as he moved, so I could take a reasonable guess at the words I didn't understand and couldn't catch. I didn't know if this was in courtesy to me, but he reminded me not so much now of a plaice as of a wobbegong shark that Trip had once shown me photos of from a dive he'd made in Australia. Rakhor and the shark might both look slow and ugly and harmless, but that wobbegong had a big mouth with a lot of sharp teeth in it, and even though these were relatively small, once a wobbegong bites you it apparently doesn't let go easily.

"I had tied the prisoner [securely]. There was no need for their [concern] and she did not ask for help." Atreh replied quietly and respectfully.

Zelav threw something in at that point. He spoke so quickly and viciously I could hardly pick up a word of what he said, but whoever he was referring to, it wasn't a compliment.

Briai's deep voice came in a rumble, like distant thunder. "I [had given the] command into his hands."

Both of his fellow chiefs looked displeased as well, and I had to school my face not to show the grin I felt building. Whatever they thought about me, they'd stick up for each other's authority, and Zelav had obviously made a very stupid opening move in defying it.

"I had [made disposition] for the safety of the woman and the village." Atreh was immovable. "I was [in charge] of the village and had other [duties] to [carry out]. I gave both Arlay and Zelav their orders. No man enters a woman's tent uninvited [unless] she is in danger. The woman says she was in no danger at any time. The prisoner [had not] tried to escape or [threatened] her in any way."

Thais looked at me and said something. His voice was high-pitched and nasal, and he sniggered as he spoke.

A few people around the tent smiled dutifully, but I got the feeling some inappropriate reference had been made to the previous night's events – the ones that followed my return to Jessa's tent.

 _Jessa_ … I had only to shut my eyes and I could see her, kneeling up naked among the furs: Eve in the firelight, innocent and desiring…

I'd suspected I'd be her first. I had no idea why no-one else had been granted the privilege of sharing her bed, but that isn't the sort of question that's easy to slide into casual conversation. Their loss was my gain, anyway, though it brought with it an odd sense of responsibility, even – stupid as it may sound - reverence.

There had been many reasons why I'd held back from taking what I'd been aware for some time was mine for the asking. Chief among them, I suppose, was the desperate belief that somehow I could still get back to my own life, my old life. But last night, in the storm, I'd had to accept that that wasn't going to happen. It was time for me to face facts, and do what I could to make a life for myself here. There was no longer any reason for me to deny what both of us wanted. I still loved Hoshi – I thought I always would – but life goes on, and Jessa was the here and now.

Nevertheless, in going to her I was letting go of a dream, and when I finally took her there was a terrible little death among the ecstasy…

I recalled myself to the present with a jerk. I could soon be on trial for my life; this was no time to be daydreaming about a woman, whatever I felt about her.

Zelav was speaking again. Well, not so much speaking as shouting. Far from taking warning, he seemed to have lost his head completely. All of the bitterness of the intervening weeks was spilling out of him, unstoppable. I couldn't catch one word in fifty, but the chiefs certainly could, and all three of them watched him, their expressions getting stonier by the minute.

 _Fool_ , I thought dispassionately, staring at him. With the trouble he was already in, he should have kept his temper and his wits. He was one of the People, he could surely have pleaded provocation or an excessive concern for Jessa's safety if he'd kept his head; he could have said he'd misunderstood, overreacted, anything that would have given them a chance to forgive him. I already knew that the People were a close-knit family, sharing each other's joys and griefs with the simplicity of children, in a way humanity had forgotten centuries ago. The last thing that any of them would want was for a member of the family to distance himself from it, but Zelav had put his head in the noose and was pulling it tighter with every word he uttered. Briai stood in the position of a father to the people of his village, but he was not a father who could or would tolerate open defiance of the laws that the People regarded as inviolable.

The audience very quickly grew angry at this flagrant lack of deference. Possibly some of them felt he may have had a point as regards me, but certainly none of them thought he had any justification whatever for attacking a woman, no matter who she was or what she had done. Atreh had told me that it had brought all the men of the village into shame, and would be hard to deal with even if the perpetrator showed the deepest remorse. Remorse, however, was apparently the last thing Zelav felt. I could catch the sense of one or two shouts from the elders that he should show respect, but they fell on deaf ears, and soon the shouts were even from his peers, outraged that their shame was being compounded.

Briai endured the tirade for a commendable length of time, but eventually even he'd had enough. He'd been sitting very straight in his chair, his hands gripping the ends of the arms the only sign of his darkening mood, but suddenly he stood up.

He didn't speak, but in three long strides he'd reached Zelav and fetched him a terrific slap across the mouth.

Not a punch, which would have carried some suggestion of honour. There was a concerted gasp from the audience.

Zelav staggered backwards, his face perfectly white except where a trickle of scarlet suddenly sprang from his split lip.

"You shame the People," his chief said in a low voice that nevertheless carried through the now silent tent. "Your guilt has come out of your own mouth. Wait there for your sentence."

I hadn't expected that. Nor had anyone else, to judge by the stunned looks, but Briai was savage with rage as he swung back to his fellow chiefs. "You have heard the [evidence], my brothers of the People. I see no need of other [testimony]. Give me your verdict here and now, before the warriors of the People."

Even Atreh had gone pale. This was not what was supposed to happen. But I supposed that this kind of event was pretty well outside the known universe for the villagers; usually the worst punishment imposed for any misdemeanour was a whipping, and even that was rare.

However, Thais and Rakhor did not flinch. As unlike as they were, there was a matched _gravitas_ in their faces as they rose. Had they been human, I might have thought that passing sentence on a man not of their own tribe might have been easy for them, but watching them I found myself ashamed of that suspicion. They were as grieved and outraged as Briai himself by the conduct of a man of the People.

"He [has cast] a shadow on the tribe. _Outcast_ ," said Rakhor.

Thais nodded. " _Outcast_ ," he confirmed.

 _"No!"_ The tent flap was torn aside, and even as everyone jumped at the scream that split the stunned silence, Makia stormed into the tent, rushed up the walkway and fell at Briai's feet, clutching at his tunic. "No!" she screamed again, and pointed at me. "It is all _his_ [fault]! He is one of The Others, come to [rob] us of our [strongest] young men! He is a sorcerer, a curse! None of this would have [happened but for] him!"

The chief looked down at her impassively. His anger was under control, but I certainly didn't believe it had cooled; he had the kind of temperament that takes a lot to fire up and a long time to cool down. "Makia, if he was the Lord of The Others himself, his [conduct would have] been more honourable than [that of] your brothers. It was not he who [assaulted] a guest or beat a woman [half to] death as a [prelude to] forcing her."

"Lies! He lies! They are all [lying] to you!" she screeched.

"Every word I [have spoken] is the truth." Atreh was ice-cold. "The whole village could [bear witness] to Jessa's injuries. And they were not [inflicted by this] man, who was at warrior's [work] saving the village while your brother was bringing [terror to] a woman who has [served] us all for [years with her skills at] healing."

At that point Zelav decided he was going to take action. He hurled himself across the intervening space at me, his hands grasping for my throat despite the stick tethered between them. Unfortunately for him, I'd been half-expecting trouble of some kind, and had included some loosening-up exercises as well as mental preparations while I waited for the trial to start. I grabbed the stick between his hands, planted both of my feet in his chest, and simply rolled over backwards, using his momentum to propel him over the top of me to land with the wind knocked out of him, spread-legged and graceless among a group of spectators who'd had to scramble desperately to get out of the way.

"Hold him there!" thundered Briai.

Shockwave followed shockwave. I thought it said something for the awe in which he was held by the villagers that nobody uttered a word of protest as he strode to the fire and scooped up a handful of ashes from the edge of it. With the other hand he drew the knife from his belt and advanced on Zelav.

Makia followed him every step of the way on her knees, holding on to his tunic and wailing like a banshee. She might as well not have existed. A dozen hands – and they were needed – held Zelav down as his chief bent over him and made four cuts in his face, a slashed X on each cheek. As the blood welled, Briai slapped on the ash and ground it in; I don't think I was the only one to see the pain in his eyes as he forced the stuff into the open wounds, but for all that he didn't hesitate for a second. His hands were a mess when he finally stepped back, breathing hard. "Now go."

There was dead silence in the tent as Zelav, released, rose slowly to his feet. Even I could almost sympathise as he stared around at the warriors who had once been his brothers, as one by one they stood up and turned their backs on him.

Thais and Rakhor folded their arms and turned their backs on him too. Nobody would speak to him, nobody would acknowledge his existence. He was dead to them all.

He searched Briai's face, his own bloody mask aghast. For all his size, he looked suddenly like a child; a child whose parents have abandoned it. _Life is hard on the Plains, outside the People._ I thought that right until this minute he hadn't truly understood that Briai would cast him out, and now the realisation was utterly beyond his universe to deal with. _"Bhar…"_ he whispered: a heart-rent 'Daddy'.

For one more moment Briai looked into his face, as a man looks before the coffin is sealed on a loved one. Then, with the massive deliberation of a grizzly bear, he sliced through the thongs on Zelav's wrists and then turned his back on him.

Now only I and Makia were looking at him. At the Outcast. I don't think he even remembered my existence. He was just staring at the sister he'd never see again, and she was staring back at him with the tears pouring down her face.

After a minute or two, he moved. By the way he almost shambled down the walkway, I was pretty sure he was blind with tears. He didn't even try to speak to anyone. His life in the village was over, his life as one of the People was over. The slap of the tent-flap dropping into place behind him was loud in the absolute silence.

Makia watched him go. She was still kneeling on the ground, as though she'd forgotten how to stand up. But she wasn't crying any more when she finally looked at me. "You will pay for this."

"Leave the tent, Makia." Briai spoke very quietly, but it was not a suggestion.

She dragged herself to her feet somehow. With a last drenched stare around at all the silent warriors, she walked out after her brother. I supposed she could have gone with him if she'd wanted to, but it would be a suicidal gesture at best; from what little I'd gleaned of the way Outcasts live, she probably wouldn't have survived for a month. Love it or hate it, life lay in the village.

After she'd gone, there was a charged silence. Then, slowly, the three chiefs re-seated themselves and the warriors did the same.

It wasn't quite the atmosphere I'd have wanted for the occasion, but I was quite sure there was no point asking for an adjournment until everyone had calmed down.

One trial was over.

Mine was about to start.


	34. Chapter 34: Reed

Briai had drinks brought for himself and his fellow-chiefs; I thought, to give them all time to settle down a bit. His own colour was higher than normal, but I was quite certain that although he'd acted in anger that hadn't affected his judgement in the slightest. If I was any judge of the matter, his decision had been all but made before the trial started, but he'd been hoping against hope for some miracle that would allow him to extend clemency.

If it had been just a matter of the two brothers having had a go at me in the way they did, I'd have been tempted to put in a word for them myself – maybe as the victim my word might have carried some weight. But Arlay was dead, and Zelav's chief crime in the tribe's eyes was the assault on Jessa. For that, no way was I going to speak up in his defence. The thought of what he'd done to her, and what more he'd so nearly done, made me want to carve him into little screaming pieces.

Well, good riddance to the bastard. I hoped he'd have a short life and a miserable one.

There was some murmuring still among the crowd, but although I'd sat down again, with Atreh at my side, I could still see most of their faces and thought that although they were still shocked, on the whole they supported Briai's decision. Possibly there were one or two who thought he'd gone too far – this business about brown eyes still both perplexed and angered me, and I hadn't been able to find out any possible reason why an otherwise pretty fair society would have such an idiotic attitude – but most were nodding themselves into acceptance.

I turned to my companion. As I had more than an inkling that he harboured some pretty serious feelings about Makia, I suspected the scene that had just been played out must have been hard on him; and indeed, the troubled groove was sunk so deep between his brows that it practically gave me a headache looking at him. "I sorry for people pain," I said quietly. "But I think right thing."

He nodded. "Let Malcolm forgive Makia," he murmured, on a note that was almost pleading. "She loves her brother … _brothers_ … [very] much."

Well, I wasn't going to argue on that score; I could see it for myself. But that didn't mean she wasn't a bitch, and I was sorry for him too. He was old enough to be in love and still young enough to be blinded by it, and I wondered if she gave a damn for his feelings. Probably not much of one, considering that in the _acha-we_ , in full view of him and everyone else, she'd openly invited me to have sex with her. I knew that it didn't mean in this society what it would among humans; they didn't seem to place any particular emphasis on fidelity in their relationships; but it had to mean something, when you were his age, and unless I was very much mistaken he was having a bloody rough time.

But at that moment Briai set his goblet down and turned his deep eyes towards me. The audience, who'd been watching for their cue, quieted instantly.

"Malcolm the Stranger, it is time for you to tell us of yourself," he said evenly. "You [have] learned a little of our language. We [wish to] know [from where] you come and who you are."

I rose to my feet and faced him, aware that Atreh beside me had done the same.

"I am grateful to Lord Briai for…" I couldn't think of the word for 'hospitality'… "food and shelter. And for his protection."

Then I paused. I had my story pretty well prepared, but to me it sounded far-fetched to say the least; that said, from the point of view of the audience, it probably wasn't. "I come from a land west of the sunset, and I can never return."

The weeks of speculation had not dimmed curiosity about my origins, it seemed. Most of the warriors were leaning forward, listening eagerly. The three chiefs were slightly less open about it, but they were certainly paying keen attention.

I didn't have to feign the slight quiver in my voice on those last four words. I was constantly haunted by the memories of what I'd lost, and for all my determination to do my best to adjust to the life I was now apparently fated to live, there were times when I would have given anything to open my eyes to the shrilling of my alarm clock, summoning me to a routine day's duty on the Bridge.

"I was chief warrior to a high lord," I resumed, wishing my command of the language wasn't so limited – presumably there _was_ some kind of equivalent to 'Security officer to a Starfleet captain', but if there was, I hadn't heard of it. "We had war with another tribe. We were…" I fumbled for 'travelling' and hoped that I'd got the right word, "to a big battle and sheltered in a cave. There was a big enemy magic, to take the protection from my lord." Momentarily there was a lump in my throat that I found hard to swallow; I couldn't bear to imagine the ship going into the final reckoning with the Xindi without me aboard.

"I was taken by the magic, I do not know how. I woke up among the People." I swallowed again. "Atreh has told me of The Others, and that some believe I belong to them. It is not true. I do not know them, I do not serve them. I served my lord with all my heart. He was a good man, he wanted peace but had to fight the bad tribe."

I won't say that I got all the words absolutely right, but I was pretty sure I'd got the gist of it across, and had to blink away a sudden hot, shameful stinging in my eyes at the thought of _Enterprise_ 's captain and crew, and all the unknown dangers they'd face as he took the ship ever further into the Expanse. They weren't unprotected, true; I had the utmost faith in my deputies to step up and take over – as much as Hayes would allow them to, of course. But _I_ was the ship's Tactical Officer, _I_ should be there facing the dangers with them, and preferably _for_ them if I could.

And Hoshi … how had Hoshi dealt with my supposed 'death'?

Was she still alive?

Would I ever know?

Briai had listened without a word, studying me carefully.

It was Thais who asked the first question, his faded blue eyes as sharp as his voice. "Your lord's priests [could not] protect you from the bad tribe's sorcerers?"

"Maybe. If they had known magic was there." Momentarily I relived the appalling few seconds while we watched that damned anomaly buckle the rocks as it came towards us. Why it didn't buckle people in the same way I don't know; we could only be thankful it didn't, or _Enterprise_ wouldn't have survived the first encounter we'd had with one.

"Why did [these] powerful sorcerers not simply kill your lord?"

"Because I was protecting him," I said bleakly.

"But when they [had disposed of] you, _then_ maybe they killed him," he suggested.

I had to admit to the assembly that it was possible.

This was not, of course, because of any 'sorcerers', but because I didn't know how much of the mine's floor had collapsed, presumably into workings below. The damage could have spread after I'd been swallowed; the ceiling could have come down. The whole landing party could have been killed for all I knew.

Why I'd ended up here, I couldn't offer a guess; the question tormented me constantly, but I was no nearer coming up with an answer. It could be some kind of delirium state produced by my brain as I was dying, but it seemed to be going on for a heck of a long time and be following a surprisingly logical sequence. (Normally when you're dreaming _something_ tips you off that things aren't as they should be; you may not realise it at the time, but in hindsight you can look back and wonder why the hell you didn't.) In the meantime, with no terms of reference to suggest either where I was or what the bloody hell I was doing there in the first place, all I could do was to behave as if this was reality and I was living it.

Rakhor shifted in his chair. "It is an ill thing for a warrior to lose his lord," he rumbled, on a note of unexpected sympathy.

I raised my head. "For my clan, it is the _worst_ of things," I said, letting my despair seep through. "For the Reed clan, our honour is everything. We live to protect those we serve." Above the mantelpiece at home was a magnificent oil painting of one of the Navy's last aircraft-carriers, HMS _Indomitable._ Carved into the gilded frame was the motto that embodied the whole Reed ethos as well as that of the ship and indeed the whole Royal Navy: _Servio fideliter,_ 'I serve faithfully'. In that moment I could almost see it, the strong proud lines of the carrier above the wind-whipped turmoil of the ocean around it and the watery dawn sunlight breaking through the clouds behind.

Beside me, Atreh spoke up. He now recounted the story of what had happened on the first day, when the village had come under attack; of how, despite being initially imprisoned as an enemy, I had used my freedom not to try to escape, but to save others. He made it sound a lot more heroic than it actually had been, but arguing that point would hardly have been a survival strategy on my part, so I stayed uncomfortably silent. I wasn't happy with him claiming he owed me his life – in the kind of fight that had ended up as, everyone owes their lives to someone. I quite probably owed mine at some point to one of those stout-hearted lasses who'd waded in with broom handles, but they weren't getting their share of the credit.

When the tale was done, there was a short pause while the audience talked and thought it over, and presumably a few of the warriors who'd been there too added their mite to the little knots of conversation that developed. The proceedings were surprisingly informal; I doubted exceedingly whether Uncle Alastair would have approved. Personally, I was all on Uncle's side at this point. I was on _trial_ , for God's sake. I just wanted to get on with it.

Briai's gaze left me for the first time, and he watched the people talk. His mien now was like that of an owl, all concentrated listening. Rakhor watched me. Thais summoned one of his warriors and whispered to him; the man nodded and went out of the tent.

After about ten minutes the messenger returned and caught his lord's eye from the tent-opening. Thais said something to Briai, and a hard clap of hands called the meeting once more into order.

"The woman Jessa is called to speak," the chief said into the silence that followed.

She must have been right outside. Immediately she entered, and as she paced steadily up the walkway I wondered how the heck I'd ever thought of her as 'average'. Maybe she'd never have been a hot contender in a beauty contest, but there was a supple grace to her movements and a character in her pretty, quirky little face that cast Makia's tawdry gilt utterly into the shade. Usually during the daytime she kept her hair plaited out of the way; now, however, it was untied, just as it had been last night, and fell around her shoulders in a burnished, rippling flood.

She bowed respectfully to the three chiefs, and stood facing them, waiting to hear what they had to say.

"You are the Healer for this village," stated Rakhor. She nodded, but he was already going on. "You have [intimate] knowledge of this man's body. Apart from his lack of–" he used the word that probably meant leopard-spots, to judge by the motion of his finger towards his own cheekbone which was heavily dappled with them – "have you [observed] any differences [between] him and the People?"

"None, Lord," she said politely.

"And his behaviour [towards you] has always been [respectful]? You have never felt[yourself] in any danger from him?"

"Not for one [single] moment," came the steady reply. "It is true that at first, I was afraid because of the [possibility] that he was one of The Others. But even when he [had every reason to] believe we [wished] him ill, I [never] believed he would hurt me."

Thais looked around at the assembly. "I invite others to speak on this matter."

Orran rose in his place. "I am not [qualified] to speak as to [whether] this man is one of The Others," he said. "But I have seen nothing that tells me other than that he is an honourable man and a fine warrior.

"His tale may be true. It may not. But he has done his best to serve the People, and I [for my part] would ride beside him against The Others and believe he would stand or fall beside me."

I blinked at him. How I'd come to earn such an encomium from a bloke I'd hardly exchanged ten words with I didn't know, but I did know that the People were hugely intuitive, relying enormously on their instincts. If that was what his instinct had told him about me, well, I couldn't be other than flattered.

The next speaker, however, was less flattering. (Unsurprising, as Bradda was far too smitten with that Roish woman who always glared at me like she'd found a heap of goat-crap in her bedding. Luckily, she wasn't in the village all that often; I suspected she spent a good deal of her time in this 'Sacred Cave' of theirs. I'd tried to follow her back there once or twice after her periodic visits, but without a horse it was wasted effort; I'd have been missed and tracked down within half a day.) "It is folly to trust a stranger on the [basis] of a few [months'] good [behaviour] and a child's tale," he growled. "I believe he is indeed one of The Others, and a spy sent to [obtain information] for his masters. He has [cost] the People two good men we could [ill afford]. I say we should kill him now, before he can return to his masters and tell them everything he knows."

Shonn was the next to rise. "He is no rider, but he is good with horses," he said simply. "If there is [doubt], let him walk through the herd, and let Syach judge him."

There were surprised expressions all around, but after a moment these were succeeded by nods.

Personally, I was rather less enthusiastic. It had been drummed into me from day one that I should keep my distance from the mares. These were mostly unbroken, though they were used to people and would submit to handling; a few, like Jessa's Arach, had been trained to saddle and bridle, and others could pull or carry a load. The real problem was Syach. Even before the Outcast attack, he'd been ever-vigilant of anyone coming close to his wives. Now, however, there was an edge to his vigilance that hadn't been there before. Curiosity had been replaced by suspicion, and during my periods on guard I'd seen those flattened ears too often not to understand that I was being warned off even from coming too close to mares grazing on the edge.

Even when on guard, riders didn't take a shortcut through the herd. However much longer the distance, they went around the edge of it – and _they_ were on horseback, and able to see trouble coming. Shonn had definitely said 'walk' through the herd – an action to which the resident stallion would probably take extreme exception.

I stared at him, trying not to let my dismay show on my face. Talk about trial by ordeal; I would never be allowed to carry a weapon, let alone use it against Syach, even in self-defence. I'd have been worried about my chances if I'd been born one of the People, but as it was I was a stranger. I looked different, I probably smelled different; I certainly _sounded_ different. It wasn't even as though I was particularly at home with horses; true, as part of Father's efforts to make me fit in with my social equals at home I'd been taught to ride reasonably well, and the lessons had fortunately included grooming, mucking-out and very low-level routine care and maintenance such as getting a stone out of a hoof. I'd been able to remember enough of all this to get by. But that didn't make me a horseman by any stretch of the imagination, and Syach had already signified quite clearly that I was _persona non grata_ in his little kingdom. My chances of survival against a stallion that must weigh three-quarters of a ton with attitude were quite frankly minimal.

Briai looked at me impassively. "Would you accept the judgement of Syach, Malcolm the Stranger?"

 _Bloody hell_. My first instinct was to refuse, because there are nicer ways to die than being trampled to death.

I shifted my stare a little desperately to Jessa, who returned it wide-eyed. Maybe I might survive, maybe she might be able to pull me round if I did. But then, even if I did and she could, the tribe would have had their judgement. It was the equivalent of the ducking stool in a witch-hunt. If you survive, you're a witch, and we kill you; if you drown, you were a human, and sorry, mate, we just made a mistake. Could happen to anybody, right?

Except that here, a refusal to undergo the trial would be taken as an admission of guilt rather than a demonstration of my understandable reluctance to be smashed into mincemeat by a horse with a grudge.

I'd never felt more alien from the People than in this belief they had that there was some almost divine quality about Syach. I was ready to join them in anything they said about how beautiful he was, and how intelligent, and yes, I could sympathise to some degree with their obvious horror at the fact that somebody had tried to kidnap him. But as for setting him up as a qualified judge, jury and executioner of a man on trial for his life, well … at that point we _definitely_ parted company.

The alternative, however, was to put my hand up and plead 'guilty'. And if I did that, my chances of survival in this world were virtually zero. Even if I managed to escape custody (which was unlikely) I had no horse, no shelter, and no friends; I supposed if the worst came to the worst I could try to seek out these mysterious 'Others' and sell my services, but that would presuppose my living long enough to find them (which was even less likely).

So. Probable death by horse (messy and painful, but probably reasonably quick) had to be weighed against certain death by starvation and exposure (slow but probably less painful, though there was always the chance of my being found by a band of Outsiders, which would introduce any number of highly unpleasant possibilities into the equation).

Bloody hell, they never ran any simulations on this kind of decision in the Academy…

Well, if this was the only choice there was (and it didn't appear that there might be any way around it) then there really _was_ no choice. "I not one of The Others," I said in a low voice – low, because that was the best way to keep it steady despite the fact I was bricking it. "If Syach knows innocence, he will know that."

There was a buzz of conversation. Those who I thought had some sympathy for me looked apprehensive; those in the opposition camp were positively gloating, which didn't make me feel a whole lot better about the situation.

Briai glanced at his fellow chiefs, clapped his hands to his knees and rose. "It is decided, then," he said.

"Syach shall be the judge."


	35. Chapter 35: Reed

"My Lord, I ask one favour for Malcolm." Jessa's clear voice rang out above the muted buzz of speculation.

 _Bloody hell, love, I appreciate the thought but I'm not sure I could manage right now…_

Presumably everyone else thought it was too serious an occasion for ribald humour. Even Thais didn't grin.

"The woman may speak," said Rakhor, after glancing at Briai.

She looked at me. "He has a right to go to judgement wearing the clothes of his own people. I ask that he be allowed to dress himself accordingly to go before his god."

 _Fabulous,_ I thought automatically. _She's practically told them all she expects me to get_ _pounded to a pulp._

More reasoned thoughts took over. That might be what it sounded like, but I'd bet my life – I was _going_ to bet my life – that there was more to it than that.

I swallowed once or twice, trying to get saliva into a mouth that suddenly felt completely dry. "It would be in …" Damnation, I couldn't think what the words for 'accordance with the traditions' might be, so I tried again, going for something less ambitious by my standards. "It is a right thing among my people."

Briai nodded. "Then it shall be so, for your courage is not in [any doubt]."

I supposed I appreciated the compliment, but 'courageous' was the last label I'd have attached to me as I followed Jessa out of the tent. Quite frankly, if I'd thought I had a prayer of success or had anywhere to escape to, I'd have been tempted to make a run for the tethered horses in the nearest picket-line, grab one and do my best to make a getaway on it. If I fell off and broke my neck, at least that would be quick and painless. The chances of my even making it as far as the picket-line, however, were negligible.

There were dozens of people around us; most of those of the villagers who hadn't been eligible to participate had been waiting outside, eager to know the verdict, and I was the centre of attention even as some of the crowd began to eddy towards the grazing-grounds, evidently anxious to secure good places from which to enjoy the anticipated slaughter. Many actually hurried to get onto horseback, so they could have a grandstand view.

Having come to the decision, there was no reason to delay the ordeal; I wondered briefly if there was any point in mentioning the human tradition about the condemned man being entitled to a hearty meal, but decided not to. For one thing, I didn't feel particularly hungry, and for another, any food I ate would slow me down. Speed wouldn't save me, my strength in comparison to Syach's was a joke, and I had nothing that approximated to teeth that could tear a man's face off or hooves that could split a skull like a rotten melon. All I had was my intelligence and my agility. I was put in mind forcibly of a film clip I'd seen once of a seal being hunted by a big shark; in terms of mass and weaponry the seal was hopelessly outclassed, but the desperate animal had just kept turning, turning, using its superior agility in the water to keep itself perpetually just one leap away from those teeth. It wasn't much of a comfort, especially in view of the fact that I would have much more than Syach's teeth to contend with, but it was all I could hang on to as I trudged towards Jessa's tent to don my funeral finery.

Atreh was still beside me, and Bihiv pushed his way to us as we reached the tent, his handsome young face drawn with anxiety. " _Syach?_ " was all he said, but there was a world of apprehension in it.

"We will pray to the gods for a just judgement," replied Atreh shortly. Then, as Bihiv made to follow Jessa into the tent, he put a hand on his arm, stopping him. "Give them a little privacy."

He glanced at me. "[Would that] I could do more. If you fall, I shall see your body honourably dealt with."

I nodded, and followed Jessa into the tent, letting the flap fall behind me.

I'd sort of envisaged a quick strip-off and cuddle among the furs (I _definitely_ wouldn't be up for anything more), but was perplexed to see her delving among her bundles of medicinal stuff instead, with the desperation of Father Christmas looking for the missing ignition key for the sleigh at half eleven on Christmas Eve.

The bundle with my uniform in it was already open, flung onto the bed.

"Just the outer… suit," she said, tearing open yet another roll of cured skin containing a dozen more seemingly anonymous little packets of cloth. "Not the inner. Not yet."

Wondering, I shed my villager's clothes and pulled on my Starfleet briefs and my jumpsuit. It felt strange, and I wondered if this was just because I didn't have my regulation vest on, or whether I truly was coming to accept that this part of my life was over and gone.

As I unfolded the black inner shirt – presumably this would be wanted eventually – my phase pistol slid out onto the furs, and I picked it up, assailed by a terrible temptation. The People didn't know what it was; they had no idea what it could do. With this in my hand, I could take down a score of Syachs in under twenty seconds. I didn't even have to kill; though the 'stun' setting was designed for a target with an approximately human-sized mass, I was confident that even if it didn't knock the stallion out cold it would definitely induce some doubt in his mind as to whether taking me on was such a good idea after all.

If he'd been a wild animal, I'd have done it without a qualm, without a moment's hesitation. But all sorts of questions rose up in my mind about what would follow if I did. How would the tribe react, seeing me conquer their 'god horse' with what they would undoubtedly ascribe to sorcery? I'd seen for myself how devastated Jessa had been by the idea of someone putting a rope around his neck and giving him a few licks with a whip. How that would compare with his being dropped in mid-gallop by a blast from a phase pistol as he thundered into the attack…

I might save myself from being killed by the horse, but the fate that would be reserved for someone who'd perpetrated that level of blasphemy on their god would probably make trampling seem downright civilised by comparison. And perhaps even worse than that would be the damage to the People themselves. I'd be repaying their hospitality, their friendship and to some degree their trust by an act so base that I doubted they even had a concept for it. But when I was through, they'd have one all right. Malcolm Reed, the man they all thought of as 'honourable', would take their universe down to a whole new level with one squeeze of a trigger.

No. Even if I could have lived by it, I couldn't have lived with it.

With a sigh I laid the pistol down again. I'd removed the power cell some while ago and hidden it in a hole I'd dug in the ground in a corner of the tent, just in case of accidents. I could have retrieved it in a moment, but I already knew it wasn't going to be needed.

Wistfully I took out my communicator and glanced at it. No point trying to contact anybody; there was nobody out there to save me.

"Thanks be to the Mother!" By this time, Jessa seemed to have disembowelled everything in the tent, but the joy in her face as she sat up brandishing a thick roll of faded linen seemed out of all proportion to the case.

"Very nice," I said politely.

She seemed a bit too overcome by the occasion to concentrate on choosing words I could understand, but the response had definite overtones of exasperation with my denseness.

A lot of her treatments involved a base ointment (the People's equivalent of goose-fat) into which additional ingredients were mixed as required. She snatched up a bowl of this ointment she'd been working on the previous day, and rolled open the linen to display a bunch of extremely withered-looking ferny stuff, which she immediately crumbled into the bowl – I noticed she didn't touch it with her fingers, just broke it up in the cloth and poured it from it – and began mixing like mad. Then, as soon as it was all broken up, she brought it over to me and started slapping it onto my bare chest with the mixing-spoon.

Almost immediately, the skin under it started to sting like hell, so that I almost recoiled. "What the…"

"Keep your hands away from it!" she hissed at me, spreading the evil stuff stiff further. "Now put the shirt on!"

The last thing I wanted to do was put my (relatively clean) undershirt on top of that noxious goo, but her glare told me I'd better do it if I knew what was good for me. So with the utmost reluctance I pulled on the shirt and eased it gingerly down over my torso, keeping it stretched away from my skin till the last possible minute, when I had to let it fall into place.

God, it felt absolutely _disgusting_.

"Now the suit! And do not touch the shirt with your hands!" she commanded.

"Yes, ma'am," I muttered. Doing my best to ignore the sensation of most of the front of my body doing its damnedest to spontaneously combust, I pulled up the top half of the suit and pulled up the zipper.

If I'd thought this might help matters, I'd been seriously misguided. The hotter it got, the more the ointment itched and burned. The stronger the smell became, too; it was now prickling my corneas slightly, though it didn't seem to have any effect on my eyesight.

"Now Malcolm is LefTenAnt once more," she said, standing back and looking at me with beautiful brown eyes that were suddenly brimming with tears. "I will pray the Goddess that it is enough."

With an effort, I smoothed out the grimace. She was upset enough without me pulling faces. "What have you put on me?" I asked very quietly.

She glanced around the empty tent. "Old Healer once told me of this plant," she whispered. "Rare, very rare. Not to eat – [poisonous]. But it has a name that may save you."

I glanced around too, as though the walls had ears. "So what's it called?"

"Horsebane."


	36. Chapter 36: Jessa

I hoped and prayed that Malcolm understood enough of the instructions I quickly whispered to him.

We could not linger. Ai! I could not even kiss him. I had to walk among the other villagers, and many of them would bring their horses lest the herd take fright and try to run. Bolting horses suffer injuries, and that we could not risk.

I had only seen the horsebane once, knowing it from the description that Healer-That-Was had given me, and even then I had paused before I picked it. It was not a plant that had any use that I knew of, but I have always been eager to experiment, and so I broke off a couple of fronds and tucked them into my collecting-pouch.

I learned the error of my ways when I tried to mount Arach. Although she was young then, and hardly broken to bridle, she was always the sweetest-natured of beasts. But even before I had set my hand to her withers she was laying back her ears and rolling her eyes, and as soon as I tried to vault to her back she almost leaped sideways, jumping off all four feet together like a cat so that I tumbled to the ground, more astonished than hurt. Over and over again I caught her and tried to mount, and each time she tried to endure my presence but at the last minute shied away. In the end, I walked back to camp, with her trailing shamefaced at the knotted end of her reins.

Garv, seeing us come home so, had run out to meet us and see that Arach had sustained no injury. Reaching me, he had put his head close to me and sniffed.

Even now I remembered the wry smile that had split his weathered face under its mop of fair hair. "Horsebane," he had said, shaking his head. "Not a plant little maids should carry if they wish to ride home. Take my counsel, Jessa: throw it away. And then wash yourself three times in the river and come to beg pardon of this poor mare of yours."

I had taken _some_ of his counsel. I had washed myself three times and come to beg Arach's pardon, with a wizened apple in my pocket for a make-peace. Even then she had sniffed me nervously before she would be consoled and accept the apple, and after that we were friends again…

But I had not thrown away the horsebane. Instead I had wrapped it up as tightly as might be and stowed it among my medicines, thinking that one day I might find a use for it.

I did not know why I had done so; usually I was a biddable enough maid, and Garv never gave bad advice. But I was in that time of life when one mistakes foolishness for independence, and so I had decided I would keep the horsebane, no matter what Garv said. And there it had stayed all these years, safely wrapped up out of harm's way, until I had all but forgotten that I had it…

Until now.

There was only one more thing that I could do.

Keeping my distance as best I could from the aroma now emanating from his chest, I reached and cupped his face between my hands. "Say these words after me."

He hesitated, his eyes searching mine. But when I spoke, he repeated the words.

I saw from the change in his expression when he realised what he was saying. But he did not hesitate, simply went on in that low voice that resonated in my heart like that of Bracu's Wolf across the plains.

When he had done, I released him.

How much I longed to kiss him. But I could not. I only had time to repeat the few words that would tell him what to do. Then I ducked out of the tent, leaving him alone.

The number of men who were waiting outside for us to re-emerge was a tribute to Malcolm, though I doubted he would think of it in that way.

"The LefTenAnt has made preparation after the way of his own people," I said loudly, into the quiet. "He has invoked Lord Bracu's protection. He must walk alone to his trial, and after his vindication he must undergo ritual cleansing after his people's customs. Alone."

This was perfectly reasonable. All tribes have their own holy rites for special occasions, and there was nothing in the least unusual about any of these.

Solemn-faced, they all gave back a little, creating the space into which Malcolm emerged. I think they, like me, had forgotten somewhat that he was LefTenAnt, and the sight of him once more in his blue gear and carrying himself like a king laid awe on them.

He did not speak. His face was composed and still, as befitted one who walked beneath Bracu's mighty hand, and he turned without hesitation and began the walk towards the herd. He looked to neither right nor left, not even at me or at Atreh, who fell back to walk beside me with a grave face but no words.

None wanted to intrude upon one who had invoked such a tremendous protector, or who might be under the guardianship of his own mysterious gods. I myself prayed silently and desperately to Bracu that He would forgive my small and necessary deceit, and rein in Syach's proud watchfulness, in which they were brothers.

The presence of so many watchers, even at a distance, had aroused the stallion's suspicions. Instead of grazing peacefully among his mares, he was circling them, surveying the unaccustomed numbers of humans standing at a respectful distance. He grew more and more nervous, laying back his ears and snaking his head at anyone who was too slow to step back or rein their mount further away.

We came to the edge of the waiting crowd, and paused for Briai to give the signal.

Syach was just passing in front of us, and it seemed to me that he had grown twice as large as he had been the last time I saw him. His forefeet slammed into the ground as though he would trample Earth Mother herself, and his eyes were gleaming with challenge. As I watched him, the full enormity of what I was asking for became clear and sickening. Against all that royal wrath, how could a few ancient fronds of fern possibly prevail?

The wording of the test was clear: Malcolm must walk through the herd, making his way from one side to the other. At no time would anyone do so without being observed by its lord and master; even Shonn would not walk among the mares without his presence being noted, and he alone would do so without fear. Now, with the stallion in this mood, it was clear that anyone at all who approached them would do so at the risk of his skin.

Another knot of onlookers further on attracted Syach's hostile notice. At once he set off to warn them back, his crest and tail high in warning, and his hooves crashing threat.

As the stallion vanished momentarily beyond the nearest little group of mares, Briai looked at Malcolm and nodded.

The crowd was so silent I thought all could have heard my beloved's indrawn breath. Then he was walking, steadily and without haste, towards the mares. He could not run; that would have panicked them and drawn Syach down on him at once. As long as he remained calm they should not react any more strongly than to give him room, as they would any member of the tribe. He already knew that he must not come close to any of them, or the stuff I had smeared on him would do to them what it had done to poor Arach, and that Syach would certainly not ignore.

Beside me, Atreh whispered something. I think Bihiv was too frightened even to breathe. As for me, my heart was kicking in my chest like a trapped hare, and I prayed to Bracu and to Syach until the one of them was indistinguishable from the other in my mind.

Malcolm reached the mares. They watched him, and one or two of them walked away, but there was no panic, simply a quiet eddy to give him space. He already knew that a good horseman does not stare predator-wise at any beast, and he moved easily but without stealth. I dared to draw a breath.

And then I saw Arach's head come up from grazing. She knew him; she had taken many twists of grass and crusts of bread from his hands when he accompanied me to greet her and see how the coming foal grew. Sweet and confident, she knew of no reason why she should not come to him…

He tried to fend her off without panicking the other mares around him, but his quick movement and her shy away startled another of the mares nearby. This one's sudden prance scared others, and there was a moment of snorting and a few kicks; nothing in itself, but more than enough to draw Syach's attention that way.

There was a concerted indrawn breath from the crowd as the stallion's head went up and his gaze raked the herd to pin down the source of the disturbance.

Having identified it, he charged.


	37. Chapter 37: Reed

I knew I was dead.

Mares exploded away in all directions, but all I could see was Syach, hurtling towards me like an armed missile. He wasn't coming to find out what I wanted; he already had me down as an intruder who should be eliminated without further inspection, and he was ready, able and determined to do it.

Maybe if I dropped to the ground and played dead, he might just possibly buy it; I'd heard it works with grizzly bears. But even if he did, that didn't get me to the far side of the herd, and I definitely _couldn't_ see him buying me wriggling on my belly all the way, scaring the shit out of his mares. And if by any exceptionally remote chance I got away with that too, the word Shonn had used had been 'walk'. I doubted if 'slither' would cover it.

Either way, it wasn't going to save me.

In the last few minutes I'd thought over and over again about that seal, performing desperate acrobatics in the quest to evade the shark's jaws. Mine would have to be up there with the best of them, and unlike the shark, Syach could turn on a coin. All I'd be able to buy – if I succeeded in buying anything at all – would be a couple of seconds.

Jessa had emphasised long ago what my riding teacher had already taught me – that you don't stare at horses. Nevertheless it was pretty damned difficult to take my eyes off this one, and staring could hardly make him any angrier with me than he already was. I didn't think Malcolm Reed could do it; but Jag, survivor of a dozen dirty fights at close quarters, just might have a chance to snatch those few seconds….

Time slowed. I heard the drawn-out screech of my zip being pulled down to release the full benefit of my now reeking chest in a pungent wave that was nearly enough to knock me down. Somewhere under that stinking undershirt my skin was still itching and burning, but I could no longer feel it. I could no longer feel anything, and I had time to think that after all the times I'd survived attacks from humans and aliens who'd had mostly the best of reasons to want me dead, I was probably going to die thanks to a stupid bloody horse who but for my intervention would probably be somebody's prize of war.

In that strange, slow-motion world I watched him come closer. His head was stretched out, jaws bared, ready to close on my face. Usually I thought him beautiful, but there was no beauty left now, just murderous intention. He'd rip off whatever he could bite and just gallop over me before he turned to trample whatever was left into the ground.

I already knew he had the reactions of a cat. If he got me down I was finished. If I moved too soon he could change his trajectory mid-stride. I had to wait …

..wait…

… _wait…_

I almost left it too late. His teeth scored my cheekbone, but only his forequarter hit me. The force of it spun me around as though I'd been hit by a shuttlepod, but by some miracle I managed to keep my footing, scrambling forward a few paces but somehow desperately fending myself off with my hands from the ground where he wanted me.

To him, of course, the impact was nothing. He plunged on just a couple of metres under his own impetus before he was swinging around, screaming with anger. He was bloody _terrifying._

But he wasn't just screaming. He was throwing his head up and down, pawing at it with one foreleg and blowing as though he was trying to blow his lungs out through his nostrils. Instead of charging straight back at me to finish what he'd started, he was almost dancing on the spot, rubbing and rubbing his eyes and nose against his forelegs.

Whatever he felt, it hadn't done anything to sweeten his temper. As soon as he'd got some relief from whatever momentary affliction had distracted him, he made another rush at me.

This time, however, he wasn't quite as sure of himself. Instead of barrelling in to flatten me, he bounced to a halt and went up on his hind-legs, trying to hit me with his lashing front feet. He didn't want to get closer to me than he had to.

He was still deadly, still a killer intent on doing his job. But he was a killer who had to kill at close quarters, and the way his head stayed high as though he could hardly bear to breathe near me made it difficult for him to aim accurately. In normal circumstances each blow would have had all his weight behind it, ready to bear down as soon as a good one landed. Now, instead of delivering heavyweight punches he was almost having to jab at me, and as long as I kept my wits about me and my weight on the balls of my feet I could evade the jabs – just.

I was under no illusions: a single blow from either of those hooves could crush my skull like an egg. But it seemed that even at this proximity, the stuff on my chest was a torment. Within moments he was throwing his head around and screeching with pain and rage, and next second he pivoted, dropped to the ground and bounded away in a series of spine-twisting bucks.

It was only a momentary respite, of course. As soon as he'd got his smarting eyes cleared a bit, he came in again. But now he was learning to be afraid. If he couldn't see me properly he was at a desperate disadvantage; if he couldn't get close enough to hit me he couldn't eradicate the threat, and every time he made his own condition worse he made himself more vulnerable to any counter-attack from me. Not that I had anything by way of a counter-attack, but he didn't know that.

He tried a few more times, varying his method. He charged past me, corkscrewing to deliver a hit with his hind feet, but he was too afraid by then to watch me properly or to measure the blows perfectly. I took another hit from the second try, this time to my left arm, but it didn't down me and I was too high on adrenaline to feel the pain. The next time, and the time after that, he missed completely.

And I was trying, all the time, not to look him directly in the face. That was a huge disadvantage to me, because I needed every millisecond's clear observation to calculate the reactions that might keep me alive, but I was struggling desperately to convince him that I wasn't a predator, to lessen his need to dispose of me. As long as he perceived me as a threat, he'd keep trying to get me. If only I could persuade him I wasn't worth the misery, that I was small and harmless and weak, that he could safely ignore me…

He was getting more and more frustrated, more and more infuriated by his inability to deal with the situation. He tried to scare me into running by charging in and bellowing at me, but he wasn't closing. I could see that his eyes were starting to be inflamed from all the rubbing of them he'd done against his knees, and if circumstances had allowed it I'd have felt sorry for him (didn't I know all too well how it felt, to want to protect your own at all costs?), but he wasn't tamed, or even remotely friendly. He was just _learning._

Finally he stopped, just a couple of metres away from me. His head was down, and he glared at me with red-rimmed, hating eyes, but he was through. He was just waiting for what I was going to do next.

"Look," I said, keeping my gaze carefully around the level of his heaving chest, which was coated with the slobber of his distress, "I'm not going to hurt any of your lovely ladies. I'm not going to hurt anybody. I just want to walk. Quietly. Slowly. You can watch me all the way. I promise. Now. Slowly. Watch."

I took a step backwards.

He watched me.

Another step.

He watched me.

Another step.

He took a pace forward. Following. Watching. Waiting for me to trip, yearning for me to fall.

I couldn't afford to lose my footing; he'd have been on me like a flash. One good hit and it was 'game over'.

I spared a glance over my shoulder, measuring the terrain. Not good, though it could have been worse: close-cropped grass, details of the ground beneath hard to see clearly in the evening light that was shining directly from the west in front of me.

"Look. It's OK. I'm not hurting anyone." The trial didn't say how _fast_ I had to walk, or in which direction; only that I had to walk. And step by step, feeling for my footing, I walked. Backwards, with agonising slowness, stalked every metre of the way by the malevolent stallion, his red coat shining in the red sunlight. Mares too slow to move out of my way got a whiff of the horsebane and got out of range as though they'd been whacked across the arse with a cricket bat. And eventually – I don't know how long it took, time had become meaningless for me, but I'll guess that the several lifetimes I endured were actually a little over fifteen minutes – the press of horses around me started to thin. A glance over my shoulder: there were only a few left. I changed course slightly to avoid them; didn't want to have them barging into the spectators.

Past them safely…

Syach swung his head, glaring at the crowd. He blew one last tremendous snort, pawed the ground and swung around, nipping at the nearby mares to chivvy them away. Then he was cantering off, shaking his head and neighing fury. Woe betide anyone who crossed him till his temper cooled and his eyes stopped stinging. Whoever was on herd watch tonight had better keep their distance.

"Back! Till he has cleansed himself!"

Jessa's shout almost made me jump out of my suit. It was a moment before I could get my brain into gear, and unfortunately for me it was the exact moment when the aforementioned brain decided it was safe to notice my hurts. Pain flooded up my left arm and staged a competition with that from the side of my face; I put up a hand – the right one, since moving my left arm suddenly felt like a bloody bad idea – and it came away scarlet.

My knees also got in on the act, treacherously deciding that holding me up was strictly optional. The world around me swayed and dipped, but I managed to focus on the lane that had opened up between me and the nearby stream.

 _Wash… got to wash…_

Of course, nobody was allowed to help me. I summoned all the pride and obstinacy of the Reeds, put my shoulders back as though I were on Passing-Out Parade (and 'passing out' wasn't actually that far away from me at that moment) and walked as steadily as I could manage towards the bank of the stream. In hindsight I probably wavered like a one o'clock drunk, but by then I was prepared to regard not falling flat on my face as a minor victory.

Right. This was the water's edge. I peered down blearily at the rippling water as I started trying to pull off my jumpsuit. The zip was already down, but I had to get my arms out of the sleeves, and considering one of them hurt so badly I was afraid it might be broken, that wasn't going to be easy. And nobody was allowed to help me.

 _Bloody … hell…_

If the jumpsuit was bad, the undershirt was a thousand times worse. As I finally slid it gingerly down my left arm the world went away to a very long distance, and when it came back again I'd fallen on my knees in the gravelly shallows; the shock of cold was what had brought me back again.

Growing all along the edge of the watercourse were scrubby plants that the horses wouldn't eat. Their leaves were shaped like docks, and when they were picked their stems oozed an astringent sap. It was by no means as effective as the soap Jessa made, but it would help to clean the stuff off my chest – and more importantly, it stank, having much the same effect on humans as horsebane did on horses. Nobody would willingly come near me while I smelled of that.

Careful to use only my right arm, I pulled off a handful of the leaves from a nearby bush and began wearily scrubbing my chest with it while I shivered, all but naked in the thin evening wind. Maybe it was justice that the damn stuff made my eyes water even worse than they already were, but I couldn't help that; I had to get the horsebane off me.

Three times, she'd said. Three times I scoured my chest and washed myself off. I held my uniform under my knees in the water and banged at it with stones, wondering vaguely what the heck the Quartermaster would have made of my efforts at laundering it; I couldn't see the undershirt ever being wearable again, but perhaps I could salvage the jumpsuit. And by the time I'd dropped both pieces in a sopping heap on to the nearest flat surface, I didn't even have the strength to stand up. I just knelt there in the stream, bracing my undamaged arm against a nearby rock to stop myself from pitching forward flat on my face in the water. The sky reflected in it was getting dark, and one or two stars had pricked out already. The sun had set, and the water was icy, and I was shaking from head to foot.

 _"It is over, Beloved… it is done… come now…"_

I didn't even know who was speaking. I just felt someone helping me up and wrapping a blanket around me, and then there were other hands, supporting me and helping me walk; presumably their owners didn't have much sense of smell. All I could do after that was put one foot in front of another, and that was what I did, not even thinking very much about where I was going or what I was going to do when I got there. I know there were awed faces all around me, but none of them registered, and I couldn't even pay much attention to the soft voice that murmured constant encouragement in my ears.

I don't know how far I walked; not very far. The light of torches surprised my still-stinging eyes, so that I looked away from them, blinking away the tears that smarted in my cut face.

Then there was a tent, and furs. There was a brief, blurred period where my face was gently sponged with clean water and soothing stuff was applied to it, and my arm strapped up firmly with more stuff whose smell reminded me vaguely of onions. That over, there was a cup held to my lips, which proved to contain a few mouthfuls of something that tasted tart as I swallowed it without protest.

And finally, blessedly, there was oblivion.


	38. Chapter 38: Jessa

I had not believed it would work.

Lord Bracu forgive me, I had not believed anything would work against the rage that was Syach. When I saw him look up and fix his eyes on my Beloved, I knew that I had sent Malcolm to his death.

I could not scream; I could not cry. All that I could do was watch, so that all of me that mattered would die as _he_ died, and what remained afterwards would be no more than a body that no-one had yet buried….

Even afterwards, when I had witnessed the unbelievable with my own eyes – when all the village had witnessed a thing that would be talked of by the fireside for generations to come – when I was seated beside the pile of furs on which he slept, bloodied but alive – even then, I could not believe that a little pile of dried leaves could have worked such a miracle. I could not believe that nothing more had been at work; that the WolfRider had not leaned down from the heavens and lent His mighty protection to one who walked in His shadow.

Presently there was a scratching on the tent flap.

I was loath to move – I was yet watching each breath _he_ drew, counting every one a precious gift – but having seen the awe that had fallen on the whole village, visitors and all, at what they had witnessed, I knew that whoever called had come at some cost.

I thought it would be Bihiv, or maybe even Atreh. But it was not. With surprise, I beheld the narrow, usually rather dour face of Shonn the Horsemaster, framed by the beaded braids by which he kept a tally of the numbers of mares and foals of every season.

"A word only, Jessa," he said, speaking softly. "I will not disturb him."

I wondered if something was amiss with Arach, but there was no trouble in his face. I pulled the flap wider. "Be welcome."

He came in and took the seat I indicated among the cushions by the fire. As hospitality demanded, I fetched him a beaker of water and a piece of bread, and he ate and drank politely.

When he had done, he did not at once launch into whatever he had come to say, but sat staring into the cup, while I waited in a little apprehension for his words.

"I served as Garv's apprentice for many years," he said at last, very quietly. "He was a wise man, and his wisdom was not only limited to the ways of horses.

"He told me once – long ago – of a little maid who stumbled across a certain rare plant, one that has certain properties. He said that he had counselled the maid that she should throw the plant away, but that he had always doubted she had followed his advice – being, he said, at that age when little maids take pleasure in running contrary to the wisdom of their elders."

I could only stare at him, transfixed.

"I know well that it was thanks to Garv that the first bid to kidnap Syach failed," he went on, even more quietly. "But it was thanks to LefTenAnt that those who attacked the village did not live to make a second attempt, one that might well have been successful.

"I meant what I said in the _acha-we_ : he is a good man with horses. I have watched him, and he has gentle hands. More: though he is a warrior, his gentleness is not only for horses." He looked at me beneath his shaggy brows, and I could swear I saw a hint of a twinkle as I blushed. Nevertheless, he continued in seriousness.

"Though I have heard much talk of him being one of The Others, I myself believe that is foolishness. Nevertheless, there are many who fear it may be true, and the chiefs would struggle to reassure all that he is the man of honour I – and, I think, Briai – believe him to be. For these reasons, and for the safety of Syach, I suggested the trial, and I have forgotten Garv's words about the little maid.

"Few have Garv's knowledge of plants. None, to my knowledge, among those here, other than myself. None will learn of it from me."

Tears started to my eyes.

"Nay, nay, no tears. I did not come here for your tears, or your thanks," he said, wagging a finger as he rose. "I came here to let you know that your secret is safe."

He walked to the tent flap, where he paused a moment and looked back, his expression thoughtful. "That being said, it was some years since that Garv told me that tale, and he spoke of it as a thing that had happened whiles and whiles before that … one would have thought that no plant could have kept such potency for so many years."

"Strange things happen," I managed to say. "And he did pray to the WolfRider."

"Even so. Perhaps, he being a protector himself, as he told us, his words were heard. Who knows?" And with that he was gone.

"Who knows?" I asked the silence of the tent.

I turned back to the heap of furs. Malcolm still slept on, oblivious.

My world was still complete.


	39. Chapter 39: Reed

I was back in the Armoury.

It was so bloody vivid. Even Trip was there, wearing one of his ghastly sodding Hawaiian shirts, and he'd brought down a tray of cups of hot chocolate – five of them, each one piled high with fresh cream and marshmallows.

 _Hot chocolate_ , in my bloody Armoury! I jumped down from the targeting scanner platform as though it had suddenly become white hot. I was so appalled I didn't even stop to think he was my superior officer. All I could imagine was my precious torpedoes getting swamped in marshmallows. Sodding Yanks and their sodding marshmallows…

He pirouetted on the spot, holding the tray above his head out of my reach, while I could do nothing but envisage that noxious flood going everywhere. Then he started waltzing around, singing. "La, la, la laah, la la…." Offenbach's _Barcarolle_ , for God's sake, while I orbited him like a horrified binary star, watching those sodding cups sliding from one side of the tray to the other.

I was beyond relief when the door opened and T'Pol came in. I suppose the fact that she was festooned with flower garlands should have been a Horrid Warning, but for some reason the fact didn't register. "Sub-commander! Marshmallows!" I screamed, waving frenziedly at the twirling tray borne aloft by the twirling Chief Engineer.

"I have warned you before, Lieutenant, about not showing sufficient respect for other races' cultural heritage," she said severely.

And then she pulled a phase pistol out from somewhere among the garlands, and shot me with it.

…I could only be glad, in hindsight, that I shouted in English as I woke up. I was even gladder that there was only Jessa in the tent; over the weeks she'd undoubtedly got an earful of a few unsuitable Earth expressions (though I'd made an effort to avoid that particular one) so she probably didn't have many illusions left about the fact that when provoked beyond reasonable endurance I have a wide store of curses. Still, I defy anyone to experience being shot in these circumstances without giving voice to some pretty profound emotions afterwards.

The arm – she'd shot me in the _arm_ … I clamped my right hand over the strike site and then wished I hadn't.

Jessa caught hold of my hand and stroked it. "Now you have made it worse," she scolded me lovingly.

I was still half convinced my torpedoes were going to be drenched in marshmallows and hot chocolate. I lay panting with panic, until the completely unreal world reasserted itself as the real one and the one that had seemed so absolutely real fell into place as the nightmare – in more than one sense – that it had been. In the meantime, I should probably blush to confess, I used a few more expressions of dubious parentage.

It had been so absolutely real to me I'd even been able to smell the chocolate. And though I hadn't been exactly _thrilled_ when T'Pol pulled the phase pistol on me, I hadn't even stopped to wonder what I'd done to deserve it, apart from doing my best to preserve the ship's firepower.

Pick the bones out of that, Sigmund Freud.

My vocabulary acquired a couple more words over the next few minutes, as she soothed my still racing pulse by stroking my face with her hands and told me that I had been having a nightmare that made me twitch and grunt in my sleep, but that all was well and I was perfectly safe. Then she brought over a bowl of salve and started rubbing it into my chest, which was still a bit sore where that horsebane had been. I was also sporting a large, first-class bruise where Syach had clobbered me on his first run, though I'd collected enough over my long and varied career to be reasonably sure no ribs were broken.

She was a heck of a lot more appealing as a treater of my assorted ills than Phlox had ever been. I won't deny that it was rather pleasant to have her rub the salve gently and thoroughly into my skin, and after a while I remembered a few words that seemed in keeping with the fact I was in bed and she was in close proximity; I was sure that with a bit of ingenuity we could come up with some position that wouldn't put any pressure on my chest. The idea seemed such a good one for everyone concerned that I was rather disappointed when she seemed determined to keep her 'Healer' hat on.

"Malcolm is not 'gooder' yet," she said with a saucy grin.

I caught hold of her hand, moist with the herb-smelling salve. "Malcolm is not dead because Jessa is clever woman," I said quietly. My non-linguistically-inclined brain searched desperately for 'owe' and couldn't find it. "Life because of Jessa."

Her grin didn't quite go away; there was still a hint of it around her mouth, but her eyes were solemn. "Maybe not only Jessa."

I remembered what she'd coached me through saying before I went out to die. I hadn't believed a word of it, but if it brought her comfort I could put up with it. There has to be an element of question as to how effective prayer is when the person praying doesn't believe anyone's listening – or even that there's anyone there _to_ listen – but I was quite good enough an actor to hide my scepticism.

Expressing that scepticism now would be thankless and pointless. Instead I simply nodded.

Momentarily I contemplated getting hold of a piece of that plant for analysis by the Exobiology team; enough of the dream was still with me to make that thought natural.

Realising all over again that _Enterprise_ was lost to me, probably for good, was like a blow in the stomach, but I contained it silently. I didn't think she would have known from my expression.

"So what now?" I asked.

"Now – breakfast." She stood up and moved to the fire. A couple of small flat loaves were keeping warm on the bakestone, and there was soft cheese to spread on them. Not quite standard fare in the Mess, but at least this stuff wouldn't be catastrophic for my torpedoes if it got spilt in the Armoury.

That dream had been so damned real…

The sounds of life outside told me that it was well into daytime. I must have slept for the best part of ten or eleven hours, by my body clock reckoning. Even if I'd been wearing it, my chronometer would have been no use to me here; it was set to Earth hours, on which the ship's shift rotations were based. The chances of this planet having the same rotational speed as that of my home world were remote, though the ease with which I'd adjusted suggested that they weren't enormously different.

After I'd eaten, I'd have to go outside.

I took the plate with a word of thanks, split one of the loaves and spread it with cheese, and sat chewing it thoughtfully. For many and complex reasons, I didn't feel comfortable with the thought of going out there.

Over the preceding weeks I'd started to feel reasonably relaxed with most of the people and – I hoped – made a decent fist of fitting in. I did everything I could to be useful, earning my place here, even down to reducing a gaggle of women to tittering incredulity by milking goats, which was apparently not a 'man' thing. (Why this should be, I had no idea; the goats didn't seem to mind, even though it took me a while to get the hang of it.) After last night, however, I had a feeling that I was no longer going to be just part of the scenery, and I _prefer_ being part of the scenery. During my service with the Section, being invisible was safer; on board _Enterprise_ , it was part of being accepted. I'd started, once again, to lose the sense of being an outsider, and now I was back to Square One – if not, indeed, Square Minus Fifty.

"About last night – people talking?" I ventured. Jessa had sat down opposite me, and was watching me eat. An uncomfortable pointer to how apparently 'miraculous' my escape had been.

Maybe it wasn't as bad as Minus Fifty. I could cope with Minus Twenty. Even Minus Ten would be a plus, in a convoluted sort of way.

She shook her head. Her hair was still untied, and the light flowed down it in a very distracting way. "Not talking at all."

My spirits took a turn for the better. Maybe I might get away with Minus Five?

"It is too …great magic to talk of," she continued, oblivious to the fact that my spirits had just stepped off a cliff.

"Bloody hell," I muttered. I ate another little loaf, in a dismal sort of way. "I … Jessa, I … want people forget."

 _"Forget?"_ She opened her eyes so wide she looked just like a little owl.

"Yes." I leaned forward, trying to make her understand. "Please. Feel … alone. Not one of the People. Not belong. My own people gone. Now just want … not be different." God, I must have sounded so pathetic; but I was just appalled by the prospect of yet again being the outsider.

The astonishment faded, leaving behind the understanding that was so much a part of her. She came around the fire and sat down on the furs beside me.

Her hand on the undamaged side of my face was very gentle. "I have been alone all my life, Malcolm. I am not alone now, with you. You are not alone, with me. Others … if they do not accept that, it is their trouble."

My left arm was strapped up tightly, and almost too sore to lift; unfortunately, even the best of the People's pain-killers weren't as good as Phlox's magic potions. Fortunately, I had another hand, and I'd suddenly found a better use for it than holding breakfast. I put down the food, and laid it on her face instead, feeling an enormous, protective tenderness as she leaned into the caress and let herself be drawn down onto my chest.

I was under no illusions; it wasn't going to be easy. But the confession melted away some of the hard knot of misery that had been forming in my gut.

Whatever came, I wouldn't be alone.

=/\=

But I had to emerge eventually, and at first there seemed to be no particular difference around the village. It was actually early afternoon. The sun was shining, and a few people walked to and fro on their customary errands, paying me not much more notice than usual, apart from a gaggle of big-eyed children who followed along after me for a few paces until shouted at by one of their elders.

The first familiar face I encountered was Bihiv's. It hurt a little that his usual cheerfully confident smile wavered just slightly as he met my eyes, but he pasted it back on his face with commendable determination.

"I am ordered to bring LefTenAnt to the _acha-we_ ," he said, falling into step beside me. "It is late. Are you in pain? Do you want food? Drink?"

"Your sister good healer," I answered, letting the reference to my past rank slide for now. "Pain not bad. Have just eaten. Want nothing." I stopped, glancing around and wondering if it was my imagination that the place seemed emptier than it had, considering the number of visitors there were here. "Why I wanted?"

He met my gaze squarely now. "We are to have a big ceremony. It has needed much preparation."

 _What?_

Nobody had said anything to me about any big ceremony. After what I'd just been through, I wanted to fade out of the public gaze altogether for a day or two, not get involved in any more drinking competitions.

Maybe they'd let me slide out of it gracefully. I'd say my arm hurt a _lot_.

I had to brave the rest of the world sooner or later, though, and best get it over with. Then I could plead my war wounds and retire, and with any luck Jessa wouldn't take too long over her necessaries, and the two of us could spend the day in bed, recuperating. I was sure I had enough of a grasp of the language to persuade her that even if I wasn't fully recovered yet, therapy is _so_ much more effective when neither practitioner nor patient is wearing any clothes….

As I walked into the _acha-we_ , however, my hopes took a nosedive. It looked almost as formal a gathering as the previous night's, and I realised immediately that the assembly was waiting for me.

They were all wearing their best clothes, too. Even gold was in evidence. I immediately felt underdressed for the occasion, and wished momentarily that Bihiv had thought to warn me so I could go back and change.

Seated alongside the three chiefs was a chap I hadn't seen before. He was easily the oldest person I'd encountered among the People, little more than a bundle of bones huddled in his long robe. Unlike most of the warriors, who wore their long hair tied up in often intricate braids, his pure white hair was so short and fine it stood up around his head, giving him an incongruous resemblance to a dandelion clock.

His face was a mass of folds and wrinkles. From the deep recesses of his skull, the bright eyes in it watched me.

Eyeing him warily, I walked up the lane between the seated ranks of warriors and made a gesture of respect to Briai, Rakhor and Thais.

Atreh was seated cross-legged among the front rank, and rose as I drew level with him. "LefTenAnt Malcolm Reed, I [introduce you] to Vais." He added something else that I didn't catch enough of to guess at, but I caught the word 'god', and my heart sank. Surely there wasn't some other bloody miracle they wanted me to perform?

Briai rose. "If Malcolm the Stranger wishes to [become] Malcolm of the People, he must have a Tribe Mark," he said quietly. "This is Vais' gift."

For a moment I couldn't understand firstly what he was saying, and then the magnitude of what he was offering.

Evidently an expression of stupefaction turning to joy was common between both our worlds, for he smiled in response. "Malcolm [obviously] is a man among his own people. If he wishes, he can be a man among us. Syach [allowed] him to pass. It is not ours to refuse such a sign."

I have to admit that my conscience smote me a bit at these words. I knew what he didn't – that Syach had been neatly nobbled, and that this was the sole reason why I'd got through my 'ordeal' without being buttered all over the landscape. But however it smarted, telling the truth had definitely suicidal overtones, and not just for me.

I consoled myself as best I could with the knowledge that the test had been imposed on a false premise: I really _wasn't_ one of The Others, whoever they might be. But however uncomfortable I might be with the way my passport to acceptance had been obtained, I meant to do my level damnedest afterwards to deserve it.

"What I have to do?" I asked, almost without volition.

Vais answered me. His voice was so thin and high I had problems understanding him, and had to listen with real attention. "The [custom] is for me to walk with a man for a day and to watch him for a fiveday. Then the gods [send] me a dream.

"But this time the gods have sent a sign even without the dream.

"If you would be accepted among the people, Malcolm LefTenAnt Reed, [kneel before] me."

Fortunately his pointing finger made his meaning clear.

In a dream I moved forward and knelt where I was ordered. The smell of his robes reached me clearly, pungent and peppery – I tried not to breathe too deeply in case it set off an allergy against which I hadn't been vaccinated – but close up, his eyes were astonishingly commanding.

In fact…

…Almost…

… _hypnotic…_

Bloody hell!

He leaned back again (when had he got so close to me?) and nodded satisfaction as he restored a small knife to some receptacle hidden among the folds of his robe. The top of my right arm on the outer curve of the shoulder was smarting, and instinctively I went to clap my left hand to it, however uncomfortable the movement might be.

Briai was dusting a fine blue powder from his fingers. "Leave be," he advised. "The pain will pass in a [few minutes]." Humour glimmered in his eyes as he looked at me. "I think none can [doubt] that Vais was [guided] by the gods, as he [always] is."

Bewildered, I stared down at the stinging skin. In it was cut a mark, perhaps three centimetres in length: two chevrons separated by a straight line,

/\\_/\

The powder must have been rubbed into it while I was away with the fairies, because the gleaming line of blood was dark with it and the residue lay on my skin.

I knew what it was: all the adult men in the tribe had one. This one, however, I hadn't seen before.

Atreh was looking down at it, his gaze amused and rueful and – was I imagining it? – a little awed. "Truly Vais was [guided]," he commented.

"Be welcome to the People, brother Wolf."


	40. Chapter 40: Jessa

Now began the days of my greatest happiness; and now also began Malcolm's education in earnest.

As a man and a member of the People, he had to have a horse. It was Shonn's province to provide this; the colts the herd bred were gelded and part-broken, and traders visited us twice a year to buy them in exchange for the things we could not provide for ourselves. (Other traders, of course, visited regularly – the goods we produced in the _kiwa-we_ were of good quality, and much sought-after in distant markets – but horses provided our chief source of income.) Some of the best were kept and trained as reserve horses for the tribe, and it was from among these that Malcolm's would be chosen.

There was some interest in what mount the Horsemaster would provide for the tribe's newest member. My lover was obviously not an expert by any means, but as soon as he knew he would presently be given a horse, he began casting an interested eye on the geldings, wondering which would be his when his arm was well enough mended for him to ride. The cut on his face healed cleanly, though it would leave a scar. His arm, which had taken such a terrible blow from Syach's hoof, took so much longer I was afraid the bone itself had been damaged.

On the appointed day, we walked over to the herd. Malcolm had been given a blanket, which he would use instead of a 'sadl', a girth to secure it, and a set of reins. A few of the men accompanied us – he was already making cautious friendships – and although Bihiv was occupied elsewhere, Atreh saw us setting out and laid down the bow he was building just then.

"Lessons begin today, then," he commented, falling into step with us.

Malcolm nodded. "Have already learned many things," he answered with a wry grin. "Think I will have to get used to falling off." His command of the language was improving daily now he had so many more people to speak with.

Paseh was riding guard that day, and seeing us coming he rode off to attract Syach's attention. Although the stallion was not nearly as possessive about the of-age geldings as he was about his wives, he would still dislike any disruption among the herd, and he certainly had not forgiven the warrior who had bested him.

Shonn had already made his decision. He disappeared among the mares, searching for the horse he had in mind.

We waited anxiously.

When he re-emerged, there was a burst of sound from the watchers – that of surprised hilarity, quickly stifled by most.

The beast he led was one of the ugliest Syach had ever sired. It had been a surprise to everyone that Garv had not struck the foal on the head on the day it was born, for its grey coat was not only splashed with white (widely regarded on the plains as unlucky), it was ill-proportioned and apparently spiritless.

Not only had he allowed it to live, however, he had not even sold it to the traders. It had remained with the herd, a puzzlement to all - though as Garv had never been in the habit of discussing his decisions, nobody had ever questioned him on it. He would have returned a sharp answer to anyone who tried.

Malcolm caught the burst of laughter. His initial look of surprised dismay quickly became one of mortification as he glanced around.

Shonn led the horse closer. He glanced around, his expression more dour than ever. "Have your good laugh," he said, shaking his head. "You may not laugh for long."

His gaze went to Malcolm, who was staring at his new horse – and not with open admiration. "He is not a _beautiful_ horse," he told him emphatically. "He is more important things than beautiful. It is your job to find them." He passed over the lead-rope, and my lover took it slowly.

To do him justice, Atreh was more successful than most at hiding his smile. "Your horse must have a name," he remarked, his voice commendably even. "As his rider, it is your right to choose."

There was no point in argument, and I had already noticed that Malcolm deferred very readily to authority, whether he agreed with the order or not. He let out a breath that was not quite a sigh, and reached up to rub his horse's ears. "Is not Vey, but Malcolm is not Atreh," he admitted with a wry grin. "Must start somewhere."

"Must start _slowly,_ " Shonn interjected, with another stern look. "Horse has to learn, rider has to learn. Learn from each other. Many lessons."

So from that hour I shared my lover with a horse, whom for reasons of his own he named Haiz. When I asked him whether this name had some significance in his own language – of which I was beginning to learn a few words also – he laughed, and said that in the beginning it was a foolish jest, but more seriously it was the name of a man whom he had also had to learn to work with whether he wished to or not.

Lessons. Indeed there were many lessons, and not a few falls. It was plain that he had some experience on horseback, but without this _sadl_ of which he spoke, he had all to learn again; and he learned not from a teacher, but from the horse he rode. In the same way, Haiz had to learn about him, and there were days when I think both of them struggled, but they persevered. It was only to be expected that they should have an audience at first, and sometimes their failures were greeted with laughter that was not welcome to either of them. Nevertheless, in order to belong to the tribe Malcolm must be a rider, and at least a competent one.

I soon found that 'competent' was not a concept he would _ever_ be happy with. As soon as he had the trick of balance he spent every spare hour on horseback, and then the qualities of which Shonn had spoken began to emerge. The initially unpromising Haiz flowered with the attention, proving to be as intelligent and eager to learn as his rider. Although he was indeed no Vey, and was not fast, he had astonishing stamina and could probably outlast any other horse in the herd over distance; and though given his somewhat awkward conformation he would never be the most agile of mounts, still he had a mouth of velvet and the manners of a prince.

"Not so much laughter now, eh?" Shonn grumbled in my ear one day as I sat watching the two of them ride tight circles and double loops around the practice area. Where once Malcolm would have clutched at the mane for balance as the horse changed direction sharply on command, now he just shifted his weight imperceptibly to compensate, and the two of them cantered easily onward without a break. Horse and man were in a world of their own, each focussed intensely and absolutely on the other.

I knew exactly how that focus felt. It had brought me so much joy that at times I felt my body could not contain it all, and I wept in his arms.

My lover refused to conform to the customs of the tribe in only one way. He did not sleep in the _acha-we_ ; if he received invitations from other women, he did not respond to them. Every night we spent wrapped together in the furs, and I knew absolute contentment.

It was true, what Shonn said about the horse. I thought there were even those now who envied Malcolm his ownership of such an animal. Even Vey – yes, even Vey, who had always been thought the best colt of Syach's getting – did not become a part of Atreh's spirit when they were working together.

Haiz was not a _beautiful_ horse. He was a _special_ horse.

"Give them the winter, and they will be one," Shonn went on, casting an expert's judicious eye on the pair. "While as for you, little maid…" His gaze slid sideways to me, and lingered. "You are like a bud in the springtime."

I coloured a little, and laughed. "Briai too said some such foolishness, a while since."

"It would take a blind man to miss it. And Briai is far from blind." The Horsemaster made to pass on, but paused a moment, and said affably, "Though perhaps I should rather have compared you to a sweet-chestnut. Things being as they are." And before I could so much as stammer, he sauntered away with the bow-legged walk of a man who was (as we have the saying) born on horseback.

I had not even dared to acknowledge the hope that now stood on tiptoe inside me. The Healer knew it was too soon to be certain; too early, even, to think of it. But the blood had not come when it should have come, and that morning and the one before I had felt sick on rising – a sickness that I had some ado to conceal from the sharp-eyed man who shared my tent and my bed, and who could count on his fingers as well as any man.

And the days came and went, but still the blood did not flow.

Instead, The Others came.


	41. Chapter 41: Reed

It was no different to any other morning.

Well, there was _a_ difference. The warriors of the tribe were going hunting, and I was to be left behind.

I'll admit it. I was sulking a bit.

Even now I wasn't claiming to be a brilliant rider, but without conceit I was pretty sure I was better than some of the youngsters who were going. I'd worked hard enough at it. I was even developing an affection for my 'special' horse; I'll admit that my first thought when challenged to provide him a name was 'Ugly', but fortunately 'Hayes' sprang to mind instead, with the thought that his namesake had been on my back often enough and now I could be on his. Whatever his name was, however, I quickly started to develop an appreciation for him; he was as quick as hell to learn, as quick as any dog, and he never seemed to get tired or bored. He even seemed to develop an affection for me in return, and if not securely picketed with the other horses he would follow me around even without being led, which was a bit weird. And even though I hadn't got around to learning how to use spears from his back (in his spare time, Atreh had concentrated on teaching me how to fight with a sword there, defending myself with one of the hard little hide bucklers the tribesmen use), I was confident the pair of us could be of _some_ use in a hunt, if only to help cut out the chosen prey from the herd.

I knew what the hunters were going after: the annual migration had started, and huge numbers of these animals (their name for them was _sishev_ , and from the description they were like big fawn-coloured wildebeest) were moving down from the north. It was important for the tribe to take full advantage of the opportunity, because the meat that this and subsequent hunts would provide would be dried to see the tribe through the coming winter, and the hides would be used to repair tents and clothes that were wearing thin. I wanted – no, I was _desperate_ – to contribute to the village's survival in a meaningful way. Rightly or wrongly, I felt that until I could, I was only accepted on sufferance.

Even Bihiv was going, and he hadn't even passed his Proving yet!

So I wasn't in the sweetest of moods as I watched preparations being made.

The warriors were expected to be away for a couple of days, so they were packing provisions. Bihiv came to his sister's tent with a last-minute request for salve and bandages in case of minor injuries, and found me there, taking out my temper on a piece of wood with an adze. Trees, of course, were in short supply on the Plains, but the tribe carried a few pieces of pre-cut timber that could be used when required, and Jessa's big mixing bowl had developed a crack. It seemed to me that even if I couldn't go on the hunt I might as well do _something_ useful, so I was hacking away at the intransigent lump with more fury than success. I knew, of course, that if I went at it more steadily I'd get better results; my fledgling carpentry skills were improving. But just then I simply needed to vent my frustration, so I went on banging away with the adze, ignoring Bihiv's look of concern.

"Take no notice of him," said Jessa with a smile in my direction. "He has done all but [stamp] his feet since Briai said he was not to come with you on the hunt."

"Woman should show man _respect_ ," I said, pointing a warning finger at her.

She shook her head at me, wrinkling her nose and laughing. I was mad at the world and a part of me wanted to put her over my knee and spank her arse, but all the rest of me just loved her sassiness.

Bihiv opened his mouth to say something, but we never did find out what it was.

There was a sound from outside – faint and far-off, and though I'd never actually heard it before, I knew as soon as I caught it that it was the warning we'd all hoped never to hear at all.

War-horns.

Images of these were popular as a decorative form, particularly in the gold artefacts that were kept to be worn in battle. I knew they were made from the horns of some kind of large wild ox, bound with iron, and I knew that when blown they made a deep, hollow booming sound. They were carried at the forefront when the Tribes went to war, and it had been decided that with the threat from The Others looming, all small inter-tribal conflicts would cease; the horns would only sound now when the biggest conflict of all was imminent.

Doubtless whoever had been bringing the warning had been seen by our sentries. Their errand would have been divined by the Red Pennant they would have been flying as they came, and doubtless even now Briai and the elders would be gathering to hear their news, all thoughts of the hunt forgotten. Whilst I – a trained tactical officer, and the man charged with the defence of Starfleet's flagship! – couldn't even expect to be summoned to offer my advice.

Logically, of course, I couldn't blame anybody for that. Although I'd instituted self-defence classes for the women, and some of them were making real strides with it, what did anyone here know of my past history? I'd deliberately avoided giving them more information than I could help. I'd wanted only to forget, insofar as forgetting was possible; remembering brought only the anguish of realising all that I'd lost, and the impotent fury of my powerlessness to return to my own world.

Bihiv had gone pale, and put out a hand to his sister. "It has come," he said, in a voice that was commendably steady.

She'd gone even whiter, and glanced at me. "Go to the _acha-we_ , both of you. I have … I have preparations to make." She dived into the corner where her medicine bag was stored and began checking through the contents.

"We will come back and tell you the news as soon as we are dismissed." Bihiv was trying so hard to look, speak and act like a man. I don't know if I was the only one to think it merely made him look heartbreakingly young.

We left the tent together and joined those hurrying towards the _acha-we_. The messengers were still at a distance, but once again the sound of the horns floated across the plain towards us. Five riders, approaching steadily, and over their head floated the scarlet pennant on its white staff.

Makia had been walking down the avenue between the tents, and she saw me. In the folds of her skirt I saw her fingers flash into the sign that means a curse, and she changed direction quickly and disappeared.

I hadn't got time to worry about her – or the inclination, come to that. Since Zelav's banishment she'd been seen less and less, and I'd seen her on a couple of occasions riding off in Roish's company. This could only be a benefit as far as I was concerned; definitely Jessa seemed to breathe more easily when neither of them were in the vicinity.

The _acha-we_ was already crowded. On such an occasion, the rules about it being primarily a male gathering place were forgotten, and there were almost as many anxious women as men waiting for news.

Atreh had been speaking with a number of the other young men, and after a minute or two he looked up, spotted us and gestured us over. "They will speak to all first," he said – probably mostly for my benefit. "Then they will answer questions, and then Briai and the elders will retire to consider and make plans. Everything will depend on what message the other chiefs have sent – how big The Others' forces are, and in what direction they are moving."

"Who will decide what the Tribes will do?" I asked. "Will a war-chief be appointed? Are the Tribes used to fighting as one? To taking orders from a man they may not know?"

He shook his head. "We will join up, and then the chiefs will survey the situation and make plans. Nothing can be decided before then."

He had not answered the rest of my questions, but Orran shrugged and said that there had never been a time when the Tribes had needed to fight as one. As for whether they would take orders from a stranger, that was surely only wisdom if they wanted to stand a chance on the battlefield.

Well. That was logical enough, but the answer did little to ease my disquiet. People – humans, at least – are often extraordinarily _il_ logical, even at the risk of their own safety. I had no doubt whatsoever of the courage of the average tribesman, but quite as much depended on their collective discipline as on their individual bravery. I knew from the history of my own country that numbers did not necessarily prevail against an orderly and well-trained army; the Celts, for instance, had often heavily outnumbered the invading Romans, and had many superb warriors among their ranks, but their reliance on individual heroism had led to their being defeated by their enemies' superior training, discipline and tactics.

The conversation went on, but I listened to it with only half an ear. I was too busy trying to put together possible scenarios where the Tribes' strengths could be used as an asset rather than a liability, and quite frankly there didn't seem to be very many. If The Others outnumbered us and were well-trained, disciplined fighters – like the legions of Ancient Rome, perhaps – they were still by no means invulnerable, but almost everything depended on how they were being led and how they would be deployed. The other vital factor was the ground on which the battle would take place. Three Roman legions had once been virtually wiped out by an ambush staged in the right place by a numerically inferior enemy. It had involved over-confidence on their part and exceptional planning on that of the victors, but it proved that it could be done. Now all I had to do – I, who probably wouldn't be listened to by one man in twenty of those doing the planning on our side – was to find a way to duplicate that event.

Not much of an ask, then.

If I'd been in any position of authority, I'd have had a team from each tribe assembled years ago to form the core of a unit that could learn to fight together and trust each other, who could in turn have disseminated their skills among their own people so that when the time came they had at least some idea of fighting as a cohesive force, but it was far too late to think of anything like that by the time I'd understood the position, and it was doubtful whether anyone would have seen the virtue of such an idea even if I'd broached it.

The layout of the battlefield would be a major factor for or against us. I had to talk to Briai, and as soon as possible, had to convince him that we had to pick our ground so as to give us the advantage, and make sure we were not tricked into giving it up. Moreover, we had to choose one individual who could oversee the battle and give orders, and every man jack of the warriors had to obey those orders. Most importantly of all, we had to have a _strategy_ , and plans in place for every eventuality we could think of – plans that would be disseminated and understood throughout the army.

Briai's arrival put an end to the hushed and anxious conferences. He strode in with the five messengers at his back, and from the stony bleakness of his expression I knew immediately that he had been given a summary of the news at once, and that our situation was dire.

At his nod, the chap who held the pennant stepped forward and faced the expectant crowd. When he began speaking, it was evident that he was doing so by rote, reciting facts that he had been coached to say without elaboration or speculation.

"The Others crossed the Black River eleven days ago, in strength and good order. They walk in squares, each putting down their feet in time with another, so many that the earth shakes. They are more than the stars in the sky, and every man wears metal plating about his body and has a good sword and a spear – but no horse. The word in the wind is that their leaders have told them that they need none, for their business is to take ours, as well as our women for their slaves."

He took a breath. "The lord Thais was in their way and knew that if he gave battle he would be defeated at little cost to the enemy. He withdrew all his people and horses, and they are now safely with Lord Oriche. The Others passed on unhindered, and the word when I left was that they were heading for the Long Valley."

There was a murmuring at that. My unease grew as I realised that some of the men around me were critical of Thais' good sense in keeping his forces intact, even at the cost of retreat.

"I am ordered to ask the Lord Briai to bring his warriors to muster between the Spear and the Falcon's Foot," the messenger went on. "It is the Lord Thais' judgement that no less than the whole strength of the Plains Tribes will suffice to defeat such an enemy. But if we can combine, and the Gods favour us, then we may prevail."

There was a little silence as he ended, and then the questions started.

My chief concern was to know exactly how many enemies we'd be facing, but I already knew there was no point in asking. The People could only count up to fifty (not many could get nearly that far), and any more than that was simply 'many'. Shonn was one of the few who entertained the notion of specific numbers above that, but even he did not have words for them: to express 'seventy-seven' he simply said 'fifty and twenty-seven', as his fathers and forefathers had done.

The imagery created by the words 'more than the stars in the sky', however, definitely implied we were talking serious numbers. The night sky over this world contained many more stars than Earth's did; it was fairly spattered with them. (I should know, I'd spent long enough staring up at them and trying to spot anything that could give me an idea where I was, but stellar cartography had never been one of my strengths.) If this wasn't just poetic imagery, and if Thais wasn't just being over-cautious in his estimates of the numbers we'd need to have a chance of victory, then we were talking _serious_ opposition.

But more ominous by far, to me at least, was the account of how this army was marching. Marching, not walking – the description was perfect, and the significance of that could hardly be over-estimated. On top of that, they weren't travelling as a swarm, or even in an orderly, armoured column. They were marching in _squares_ … a formation that suggested expert coaching, and a tactical mind behind it. If that coaching extended to drilling in weapons use and disciplined manoeuvring, with all the offensive and defensive capability that kind of skill-set opened up, then numbers were only half of the story. More: hardly a third of it. In order to counter that, the People would have to fight in a way I feared they barely conceived of.

I was the expert in that particular field, but I doubted whether anyone here had ever even coined an equivalent for the words 'strategy' (choosing _when_ and _where_ to fight) and 'tactics' (deciding _how_ to fight). And in all honesty, even if I could have explained the concepts, I couldn't begin to imagine how I'd force home the idea of how important both of them were, and how carefully every available factor should be considered.

"The Long Valley!" someone was saying furiously when I came back to paying attention. "We must ride and turn them, even if we cannot stop them. The insult…"

"That is what they _want_ ," Atreh cut in sharply. "Did you understand nothing? Thais did not meet them because his men would have been cut to pieces for no gain, and he can muster many more men than we. The Others are moving towards the Valley because it is the greatest provocation they can offer. They want to draw hot-heads into battle [prematurely], to deal with as many of us as they can [piecemeal] so as to reduce our numbers when we eventually combine to face them."

There was a bleak little pause in our group while the younger members of it absorbed that truth. Personally, I was just taking what comfort I could from the realisation that maybe I'd been a bit too pessimistic in fearing that the People would have no idea at all about strategy, even if I still suspected that 'tactics' in their eyes could be defined as 'put on your gold, kick hell out of your horse, and charge'.

Ours had not been the only one to have seized on the issue of this 'Long Valley', however; it was soon the subject of hot debate, to which Briai listened without interruption. For by no means the first time I longed for one of the luxuries I'd taken for granted for most of my adult life, this time the one of being able to scan the area from space and see what opportunities and dangers it presented. It very soon became apparent why it was such an act of provocation for the enemy to trespass on it: it was the burial ground of tribal chiefs, and as such considered sacred ground. From the way some spoke, however, it appeared that although desecrating it would be terrible, it did offer a chance to take the enemy at a disadvantage. If we could catch them there on foot, we could strike on horseback from the higher ground at either side; and the idea of shedding the enemy's blood there as some kind of reparation for their trespass caught on like wildfire.

As an idea, it did have merit, even in my eyes. But there was little doubt that this was exactly what we were meant to think, and Atreh continued to argue against it with a passion that told me he believed that too.

Bihiv, to do him credit, contributed little to the conversation, but listened intently. Since I'd been accepted into the tribe I could probably have put in my mite (assuming I could get a word in edgeways, since practically everyone there seemed to have an opinion and be determined it was going to be heard), but I was handicapped by my lack of sound information. In such circumstances it seemed to me far preferable to give no advice rather than uninformed advice. When I was able to form an opinion I'd make damn sure it was heard, but until then I thought my wisest course would be to emulate the old owl in the oak tree, keeping my mouth tight shut and my ears wide open.

I'm not sure at what point it occurred to me that I probably wouldn't even get to see the bloody fighting. I'd made some decent strides with swordplay on foot and was starting to get the hang of modifying my technique on horseback, but nobody would put me up for an award for Warrior of the Year. The awful certainty loomed that yet again I'd be promoted to the rearguard, and left behind to look after the village.

Even as I thought that, I had the decency to be ashamed of myself. It was _important_ that the village should be defended. There were the old folk who could not defend themselves, there were the women and children who could not be taken to war; when the command was finally given to muster and move out, those who went would have to ride swiftly. There would be no leeway to accommodate the weak.

But still, even though as a trained Tactical Officer I was fully aware that it was important to secure your base before extending a strike arm, and that those left behind deserved the best protection we could spare, I wanted to be spared that long-drawn-out agony of waiting, the potentially weeks of suspense until we learned our fate. For all that I knew _they also serve who only stand and wait_ , I didn't want to be among those chosen for that kind of service. I wanted to ride and fight, to prove my father wrong when he'd called me gutless. He'd never know, of course; whatever the outcome, I was presumably listed MIA back on Earth, and my fate would remain a mystery. Given the odds against us, not to mention my less-than-stellar capability with a sword on horseback, I might well end up as just another anonymous corpse among the fallen. But at least I could fall redeemed in my own eyes of that accusation.

Suddenly the talk fell silent; Briai had lifted his hand. "I will retire with my elders to consider all that has been said," he announced. "In the meantime, each of you should make preparation.

"We had planned to move out at Sun-High. That will no longer be possible. I intend to make careful plans and provisions, and instead we will leave at Sun-Up tomorrow morning. Those who I call to take with me should be ready with their horse, gear and gold before Father Sun breaks the horizon.

"That is all I have to say for the moment. We shall talk again after the evening meal."

He was never one to waste words. On the last, he swung around and walked out, his elders following him.

There was another little silence as the tent flap fell behind the last, and then a buzz of conversation broke out.

If we'd been aboard _Enterprise_ I'd have been in my element; I'd lost count long ago of the number of hours Hayes and I had spent poring over every scenario we could think of that might develop when we finally locked horns with the Xindi. I think there wasn't a single member of either of our teams who couldn't have responded to a single imaginable situation in their sleep by now, and we hadn't even _found_ the buggers by the time I'd … well, whatever. By the time I was effectively taken out of the reckoning.

At least I could have confidence in Hayes. (God knows he and I never got on, but maybe in hindsight that was as much my fault as it was his; neither of us were blameless.) If I hadn't had that confidence, pity only knows how I'd have coped all this time without going mad with worry. As it was, I just had to keep telling myself over and over again that he was a clever bloke as well as a tough one, and that he had the best seconds available – if he only had the sense to know that, and work with them.

(Still thought he was an arrogant bastard, but then it takes one to resent one….)

As it was, I felt a bit like a fish out of water; I had no idea what sort of 'preparations' would be appropriate. The location named for the muster undoubtedly meant something to the tribesmen, but it meant Sweet Fanny Adams to me – we could have been headed for the next hill over the horizon, or embarking on the equivalent of crossing the entire continent of Asia. And it wasn't as though I had anything by way of personal possessions to pack, though I resolved to take my uniform and phase pistol. Never having even been allowed on a hunt (that sore point again!), I didn't even own water-skins or the equivalent of a rucksack in which food, salt and skinning knives were carried. So 'preparations' for me pretty well meant throwing a blanket onto my horse's back and strapping the girth across it, and two seconds later the bit would be in his mouth and both of us would be ready to go.

If, of course, I was _allowed_ to go.

The rigid discipline of my upbringing always ensured that I had the proper regard for authority. In the Reed household, there was only one response to the command 'Jump!', and it was 'How high?', not 'Why' or 'I've got a bad ankle' or (god forbid) 'I've got a better idea'. Heaven knows there had been enough times aboard _Enterprise_ when only that ingrained respect enabled me to carry out some quite senseless orders from the captain; more than once I'd had to suffocate the less-than-respectful reflection that 'God guards fools', because the fool in question certainly didn't allow his Chief Tactical Officer to perform that very necessary function. But still, even a Reed can only be pushed so far, and as I followed Bihiv and Atreh out of the tent I realised that my mind was made up.

I was sodding-well _going_.

Whether they liked it or not.


	42. Chapter 42: Jessa

I heard afterward that there had been some argument among the elders, but when the warriors set out, Malcolm was riding among them.

Only four women accompanied them: myself as the Healer, and three others, all of them older women who were reliable and thought themselves strong enough to endure the long hours on foot and on horseback the journey would entail. In truth they did better than I, for one, had expected, and hardly slowed us down at all. In view of the distance, we must ride a while and walk a while throughout the hours of daylight and for a good part of the night; the terrain we would have to cross would be too rough for a drag, so we took spare mounts that served as baggage carriers.

Doubtless there were many among the men who knew where we were bound, but I did not. Nor did Malcolm. I know that he hoped to be summoned when the planning finally started, but for the time being there was little time for talk. All our energy had to be bent towards making the muster. By the time the column finally halted for the rest period each night, most of us were too weary to do more than eat our rations, wrap ourselves in our blankets, and sleep. I did not envy those appointed to sentry duty, for they got only half of the respite that never seemed nearly enough.

I gathered that we were moving roughly north-west, but I had no idea what lands lay there. I did know that it was land we had never travelled before, for our camp had been at the northern limit of the herd's usual migration, and when Syach signalled our next move we would have expected him to lead us south, putting our tails to the advancing winter. Instead we were heading towards it, and the weather changed accordingly.

It was autumn, and that is always the time of rain; we had never taken much heed of that when we could be snug in our tents for the most and worst of it, but now there were no tents, and only sufficient fire to cook our grain and warm a little ale to heat our bellies – and there were days when we did not even have that. Within a few days we had reached those parts where a few thin, whippy trees grew here and there, slender enough to be felled with a few blows from an axe. This meant there was wood in abundance, but the trees provided no shelter at all and when the rain came everything was soaked. The wood was soaked, the ground was soaked, the horses were soaked, the riders were soaked; our food was wrapped in oiled cloths so that was safe for the most part, but no matter how closely we wrapped ourselves, the rain crept in. We each had one large oiled cloth that served as a shelter when we lay down to sleep, but on more nights than I care to remember, Malcolm and I crept into each other's arms and did little more than shiver there, exhaustion bringing sleep long before either of us felt warm.

I worried constantly that the sheer physical strain of the journey would put at risk the baby I was now certain I was carrying. Had I been other than who I was, I would even have contemplated remaining in safety in the village, at least until the first few perilous months were over. But if things went ill, there would be no safety for either of us there. There was no doubt that The Others would make it their business to round up the remnants of a once-proud people, and I had little appetite for being an item of merchandise in the slave markets. Better by far to die beside my lover if the child of his getting was not to be born in freedom.

As far as I knew, he did not know about the child. Before the messenger came it had been too early to be sure; in the days after that, he had other things to think of, though I was constantly aware of his protective presence never far from wherever I might be.

There was little he could do to ease the discomforts of the journey. It was hard on us all, whether we went on two legs or four. I did not want to add my condition to his worries, and so I said nothing. If we prevailed, the coming child would be one more reason for rejoicing; if we did not, then it was one more sorrow I could save him.

Such as they were, the tree-lands were but the forerunner of the hills, and as we breasted these we lost even what little protection the trees had afforded us. The rain continued, though thanks be to the Mother, it did not fall as heavily as it had, nor for as long. But now the wind hurled it into our faces, and our fingers grew numb clutching the reins, so that most of us rode with one hand tucked into what shelter our clothes could provide.

One evening we rode into a steep valley. Our scouts had already found the land around deserted, and not so much as a bird was startled into flight as our weary mounts picked their way down the slope. If nothing better, at least down here we might spend one night out of the incessant spite of the wind.

Malcolm was one of the outriders that day. He was some way ahead, and I saw him pull Haiz to a halt and look hard at the wall of the gully. Bihiv had already told me that this place was called the Black Rocks, and it was easy to see why: even in the dying light of a wretched day, the bones of the land gleamed impenetrably black, their uneven surfaces gleaming as though polished. Broken pieces of this strange stone littered the ground in places, making going treacherous for the horses, and we had to be constantly alert for the change of step that would mean a sharp shard had wedged itself into a hoof. Some way behind me, Shonn was cursing, a long sing-song drone into which he wove all the words that women were not supposed to know; no doubt I would hear something like it again very soon, for it is with such sounds as these that the People gear themselves up for battle. (He was not a contented man these days, having had to make the decision to leave the herd untended so that he could supervise the welfare of those the warriors rode.)

I watched Malcolm. He leaned sideways and pulled away some of the litter of loose pieces of rock from a shelf, and secreted them somewhere about his travelling cloak. I was doubtless not the only one who noticed this and wondered at it, but I think we were all too tired to pay overmuch attention. It was not until we finally made a halt for the night that the subject arose again.

We had each brought with us as much brushwood as our horses could conveniently carry on top of what they already did. Sometimes, with patience, a fire could be made with even damp wood. It might smoke, but at least it would provide a little poor warmth, and warmth was what we needed most desperately these days. As Bihiv tended to the horses and I set about retrieving our meagre rations from the packs, Malcolm started to make the fire, and I was startled to see him lay the pieces of rock in among the bits of wood and weed-fuzz.

From the start he had been good at getting a fire going, and this one was no exception. But to my astonishment, not only the wood began to burn. If my eyes were not playing tricks, the _rocks_ were burning also!

Others soon noticed, and came to stare and exclaim. Malcolm merely shrugged, though there was a look of pleased embarrassment on his face. "No magic," he said, picking up a piece of the rock that had fallen to the ground. "Just knowledge. We have this on my … in my country. We call it 'coal'."

Needless to say, the news about the 'coal' spread like wildfire. Soon many more fires were burning brightly, fed with this amazing rock, and the tired faces around them were lit with wonder and pleasure. For one night at least, everyone remembered what it was like to feel warm. The ground would be no softer than it ever was, but at least as we slipped between the blankets and threw our covers over us we were not as cold and wet as fresh-caught fish. Moreover, it was a discovery that everyone knew could hold enormous significance for the whole People, and as such the donor would be owed a huge debt of gratitude if we survived. That night, I think a great many who had been wavering in their opinion of Malcolm settled in his favour.

=/\=

We set out again the next morning, but once again Malcolm's gaze was straying. He was not on outrider duties today, but still he rode on the fringes of the column, looking constantly at the jagged landscape. A couple of times he rode away a little distance, studying the ground and – it seemed – smelling the air carefully. For most of the morning, while we passed through more of the barren landscape, he did not find what he was obviously seeking, but at about Sun-High I saw the quick turn of his head, and he heeled Haiz into a quick trot into a little defile. A couple of the other warriors, who had been covertly watching him (doubtless in the hope of other wonders materialising), turned their horses after him.

Atreh had been riding up and down the length of the column, making sure that all was well, and he lifted his eyebrows at me in silent interrogation.

"He has said nothing," I said, lifting my shoulders in reply. "I only know that he has been watching for something since this morning."

"They should not leave the column," he commented, frowning a little. "Now is not the time…" And he turned Vey and rode after the breakaways.

The rest of us did not stop, but as we plodded on I saw that Malcolm had dismounted and was looking at something on the ground at the base of a small cliff. I also caught the smell that had snared his attention: it was pungent and throat-catching, making me want to sneeze.

Whatever it was, it was sufficiently interesting that Atreh did not immediately return with his strays. A couple of moments later, one of the other warriors rode back to the column and unfastened a couple of empty oil jars from one of the pack-horses' baggage, and took them back to the little party at the cliff-base. I was a little indignant (the jars were mine, brought along so that the oil they had contained could be used to reinforce the waterproofing of our covers), but my curiosity was pricked. What could they possibly have discovered that was so important it needed to be packed into my precious jars?

I soon had my answer when the party rejoined us and the jars were fastened back in place. They were now reeking of that smell, and as I steered Arach closer I saw that the sides were smeared with black sticky stuff that was fast going solid. Presumably the insides were filled with it, but the oiled cloth that was spread across our food supplies had been pulled and tied to stop rain getting in.

"Bluddyhell, what is that stuff?" I used what I knew was one of Malcolm's bad words as he brought Haiz up alongside me, knowing it would provoke one of the shamefaced grimaces that I secretly found so endearing.

It did. But there was already a hard grin on his face, and his eyes were gleaming. "Something you can find sometimes when you find coal. It is called 'bitumen'."

The smell of it was awful. I was sorry for the horse who had to carry this stinking stuff, and the riders around us were already reining aside to get fresher air to breathe. "Let me guess. Your warriors wear it on their bodies when they go to war?"

He chuckled at that; obviously I had said something quite absurd. But he sobered swiftly, staring at the jars. "I think it may be useful. I hope so. I have told Atreh what it can do."

"And you will not tell me?" I put my chin in the air.

In truth, I was only playing, trying to keep my spirits up – a difficult task in these days of constant weariness, hunger and discomfort. I certainly had not expected the guilty, almost haunted look he shot at me.

I looked again at the jars, and suddenly I wanted to make the sign against evil. I did not know what the black stuff did, and I was no longer sure that I wanted to.

We rode on for a little while in silence. The rain started again, and Arach shook her mane disconsolately. Knowing the terrain we had to cross, we had brought food for the horses, but it had to be strictly rationed for them as ours was for us, and there was never enough for anyone. I stared straight ahead at her dismally lowered head, and hoped that the foal I sometimes felt moving behind my calves would not come to birth up here. It should not be born for some weeks yet, but stress can make a mare drop her foal prematurely.

Under the cover of my travelling cloak I slid my free hand furtively on to my belly. There was only the slightest sign of swelling yet, and Malcolm had not noticed. Probably he was too tired on most nights to notice anything; the previous night had been the first for some time that he had made even the most tentative of overtures to me, and the coupling that followed had been brief and discreet, though he was tender with me as always.

Presently he spoke. His voice was pitched very low, so that I knew he was speaking for my benefit alone. "Sometimes there is no good thing a man can do," he said, slowly as though he was picking his way very carefully along the edge of a precipice of words. "He must do very bad things, to stop worse things from happening."

"That is war for you," I answered, wondering. He had told me a little, now and then, about the bad tribe in his own country, and about how the chief he had protected had said they themselves might have to do bad things in order to stop them.

Mostly, the People do not make war among themselves. The Tales told that this had happened in the long-ago Dark Years, so we were not unfamiliar with the concept, but the Laws had been set up to make peace when it seemed that the warring tribes might make an end of each other if nothing was done. Ever since that time, the Plains had known tranquillity. Now and again there might be skirmishes – there are always hotheads among the young – but all knew that amends would be made, justice would be done, and peace would be restored until another year.

Malcolm was now staring down at his hands, with the reins threaded through his rain-wet fingers.

"There was a time when I killed and did not care," he said almost on a whisper. "It was … easier. Now I love a woman whose life is given to healing, and I know that if needs be I will do things she will hate me for."

I was chilled by these words, but I put out a hand and rested it on his arm, so that he turned to me. He had now grown a beard, as all the warriors did, but when he turned his face to me I saw the sadness in it overlaid with determination, and once again his eyes wore the coldness of the wolf and the ice.

"Had The Others not come against us, you would not need to do those things," I said gently, holding his bitter gaze. "I will hate the things you do, perhaps. But you I could never hate. And that you will do the things you hate yourself for only proves to me how much you love those for whom you do them."

He freed one hand and laid it over mine. His fingers were cold, but they squeezed mine as though I had brought him comfort, though he said nothing.

Then Atreh rode past, calling that we should pick up the pace slightly. Malcolm squeezed my hand again, and then nodded that I should restore it to shelter, where it might get just a little warm again.

And then it was back to riding, and endurance.


	43. Chapter 43: Reed

It probably wasn't nearly as long in reality as it seemed in imagination, but there were times when it would have been utterly easy to believe I'd died and been condemned to a hell composed of rain, wind, cold and hunger, all endured either atop or beside a silently plodding horse.

The one small mercy was that I'd got fairly well hardened up to riding effectively bareback before we set out on this cursed trek. It was just as well. Even so, by the time I got off at night I felt as though my bollocks had been ground into my groin so hard they'd never drop down again, and my thigh muscles were one long solid ache. The days of dismounting with at least some grace were long gone. I usually had to grab the blanket, the girth or (more than once) a handful of mane to stop myself falling flat on my arse because my knees wouldn't hold me up.

Now and again it would come back to me that I'd actually bloody _argued_ my way into this lot, and a damned hard argument it had been; sure enough, Briai had wanted to leave me at home, in charge of the safety of the village and the herd. If I'd only had the good sense to nod and take orders, I could have been snug as a bug back in the village, keeping warm in the tent and organising the odd patrol to make sure nobody sneaked up on us. Instead of which, I was here, enjoying all the comforts of a forced ride over hard terrain in vile autumn weather.

I must have been stark, bollocking mad.

Jessa was the only thing that kept me from slipping into absolute misery. I don't know how she endured it. There must have been some incredible wellspring of determination in that body of hers that kept her going without a word of complaint, and no matter how hellish things were I never looked at her without finding a smile on her face for me, even when her poor little nose was red with cold and her hair was hanging in rat's tails with the wet.

(I've loved two amazing women. Sometimes I wonder if it wasn't actually three, though the third wasn't exactly in the same kind of relationship with me as the other two, but all of them shared the same brand of courage. Maybe that's why I loved them. They only showed their true, glorious colours when the going got tough.)

It was another day, and another weary walk; I forget how long, but it felt like we'd been trudging along for hours and in all honesty all I was thinking about was how long it would be before the order would come to mount up again. Not that riding was much of a pleasure these days; as well as my own constant discomfort, I was aware that Hayes' ribs were starting to show through and even he was starting to walk as though he hardly cared where he was going. A few of the others' horses were so exhausted that they'd had to exchange them for remounts, redistributing the baggage – though by this time there was significantly less of that. For all our care to eat only just enough to get by on, there were just over a hundred warriors and their horses, plus the twenty or so spare mounts. That number of mouths consumed a lot of food, even on starvation rations, and the amount we had left was running dangerously low. At least we weren't short of water, though by now both horses and riders were drinking what they could find in pools by the wayside.

My body had gone onto auto-pilot. My mind was dangerously close to blanking out completely, though I remember some disjointed, rambling thoughts about where _Enterprise_ was now and whether they'd caught up with the Xindi yet. Jessa was walking beside me, and I was keeping half an eye on her in case she stumbled; I hadn't missed that she was practically sleepwalking, and would have urged her to get back on her horse if I hadn't known I'd be wasting my breath.

When the horn sounded, for just one moment I didn't know what it was. Then a ripple of energy galvanised me, just as it had the whole column. Tired heads lifted, and a gleam of excitement passed from eye to eye.

We'd sighted the muster. The end of our journey was in sight.

=/\=

They were gathered on a plain at the far side of the hills, and I have to admit that I was heartened by the numbers. Our own tribe was fairly modest in size; I never got around to counting the exact number, but with the women and children there must have been about two hundred and fifty souls in all. I'd been intensely worried as regards how big a fighting force the Tribes could muster. I wasn't sure how many clans would be meeting up, but if there were only ten or so, and they'd all sent about the same number of warriors, that would only give us a fighting force of about a thousand, which in anyone's book would be fairly pathetic. Unless The Others were far less numerous than rumour made them, we could look to be seriously outnumbered, and to have any chance of winning – even _surviving_ – we'd need good terrain, excellent planning, a handful of dirty tricks and a bloody hefty dose of common-or-garden luck.

As the column crested the last ridge and began the descent into the crowded valley, I drank in the number of fires and felt some of my anxiety drain away. It was hard to be certain when so many people were on the move, but I thought there must be a good fourteen or fifteen thousand there – far more than I'd expected.

The sun was well on the way to the horizon by the time we reached the flat land again. Our hungry horses dropped their heads and began tearing up mouthfuls of grass as they walked, and we allowed them to do so; they deserved it, after the effort they'd put in to get us here in so short a time.

Despite the extreme modesty of our numbers, there was still a welcoming party who galloped up to greet Briai warmly and escort him and his elders to the council that was apparently going on at that moment. If any among them thought there were fewer of us than they'd hoped for, they were polite enough to hide it; and I doubt if I was the only one to have little more in my thoughts at that moment than hope for a decent fire to dry off by, a soft(ish), warm(ish) bed and a full(ish) belly to go to sleep with that night.

The rest of us were shown to the area that had been allotted to us, where we cared for the horses and set up what could roughly be described as a camp. There were no tents, but we set up fires with the bits of timber we were given – there had been a few scattered trees here, but the stumps showed that their existence had come to a premature end to serve the war effort – and a few minutes later supplies of food were brought around. Some enterprising soul had evidently set up a bakery somewhere, for we were given bread that was practically fresh as well as a few pieces of fruit each. I seized on this last gratefully, for I was aware that my diet recently hadn't been very healthy; dried meat and cold porridge keeps you alive, but that's about it.

Most of us were too tired for much talk. A few of the younger lads – Bihiv among them – still had enough energy to start circulating and picking up the gossip, but I was attracting enough attention already without inviting more. At a guess, word of my arrival on the Plains had gone around, and quite a number of people walked past with no seeming errand other than to gawk at me. This pissed me off royally, but there wasn't a lot I could do about it other than keep my head down and ignore the stares as best I could.

I suspected that Jessa understood the reason for my suddenly sour mood. She sat beside me and leaned her head on my shoulder. "If they want to stare, let them stare at us both," she said quietly.

I dropped a kiss on the top of her head and fed her the segment of _besho_ I'd been saving till last. "You're my guardian angel," I told her.

This, of course, set off a discussion. I'd never had occasion to use that particular term before so first I had to explain what a 'guardian angel' was (a task that once again highlighted my extremely basic grasp of the language), and then we got into theology.

This was a subject I'd tried fairly hard to avoid; I knew the People were mostly quite devout in their own way, and were sometimes curious as to why I didn't seem to have any religious rituals of my own. I'd successfully deflected a few enquiries about what gods my people worshipped, but now that I had carelessly let fall the existence of one of our beliefs, my comrades were anxious to exploit the opportunity to learn more.

I'd been raised in a Christian family, with the standard attendance at church and a reasonable religious education at school. Nevertheless, although I knew enough to furnish a pretty fair picture of its core beliefs, I wasn't particularly happy talking about them. It smacked a bit too much of evangelising, and I'm nobody's advert for a devout Christian. And besides, given the struggle that I'd had to explain the nature of an angel, how I'd even begin to address such abstruse concepts as Original Sin and the Holy Trinity defied the imagination. We'd got into those waters in a couple of our late-night drunken philosophy debates at Uni, and it hadn't been long before I'd been thoroughly out of my depth; I was in no hurry to wade into them here, where holding a conversation about anything more complex than the weather was still one of my major achievements. Even if I had got a lot better lately.

Still, I couldn't get away with it altogether. I had to finally admit that my people believed in a god. Omitting the complexities of Earth's many differing faiths purely because that was a route to absolute chaos if I even attempted to explain the reasons why so many people believed so many different things and some believed in nothing at all, I tried to be as uninformative as possible without appearing too obstructive. Finally I hit on a stroke of inspiration, explaining that among my people religion was considered private.

"We talk to god in here," I said, tapping my chest. "It is not something to talk about with others."

There were disappointed looks, but they couldn't argue. I was just drawing a long, soundless breath of relief at my escape when I looked up and saw Atreh, standing watching me.

I wasn't quite sure how to read his expression. Lately he'd been too taken up with helping to supervise the trek to speak to me much, but before that he'd always been friendly enough, and I was hoping he'd find the time to give me a few refresher bouts with a sword before battle was joined.

Still, it was clear from the short motion of his head that he wanted to talk to me, so I gave Jessa a quick hug and stood up. She moved to follow me, but I shook my head; better for her to stay where she was and rest. I'd be back soon enough, in all probability.

Atreh led the way to the edge of camp. I followed, puzzled but willing. It seemed there was something he wanted to discuss with me out of earshot of the others.

When we were far enough away from the nearest fires to be able to talk without being overheard, he stopped and scrutinised me.

I wasn't at my most presentable; few of us were, after that trek. Washing was one of the luxuries that had unfortunately had to go by the board since we'd left the village, though I'd sneaked the occasional rinse of my face and hands in any standing water that wasn't required for drinking. I had a bone comb, and tried to keep my hair tidy, though it hadn't got quite long enough yet to be caught into a ponytail. My beard wasn't long enough yet to need trimming, but I did my best to maintain some semblance of good grooming, and even though I'd never have passed muster for Bridge Duty on _Enterprise_ , I thought I was about as good as I could be in the circumstances.

Metal being always in short supply, Hargi the village blacksmith had smelted down Zelav's forfeited sword and re-forged it to fit me when I was accepted into the tribe. He'd done a good job of it, even remaking the hilt so that it was more comfortable for me to hold. The outcast's gold ornaments had also been forfeit, and those had likewise been smelted down for my use. I was now the proud possessor of a clasp in the shape of a lightning-bolt, and a leather wrist-guard with a small gold oval secured to it, into which the lines of my tribe-mark had been carefully punched. Each of these things was on me now, contributing – I hoped – to the impression that I was no more and no less than any of the other warriors.

"The chiefs wish to talk to you," Atreh said at last. He was standing too still, and I didn't like it: his posture was radiating tension.

 _Crap._ For crying out loud, not more shit about my being one of The thought crossed my mind that not everybody might find the tale of my 'ordeal by Syach' convincing enough proof that I was who I claimed to be – or rather, wasn't who I claimed not to be. There might be others who knew the trick about horsebane, too. I looked around somewhat apprehensively, but there didn't seem to be any guards waiting to clap me in irons for summary interrogation, and I doubted whether anyone'd had the time or the inclination to bring along a pet stallion or two just in case there might be occasion for a little witch-hunting.

"Do you know why?" I asked carefully.

He did, of course. He just didn't want to tell me what it was. "I would rather you hear of it from them."

He was uncomfortable enough, and it would probably be useless, as well as unfair, to press him. With a shrug I fell into step beside him.

We'd only walked a little way when he swerved aside suddenly and spoke to one of the men seated around a campfire – not one that I knew. The chap was sorting some stuff that had presumably been in the pack he was carrying, and handed over the little jar Atreh asked for willingly enough, though not without a stare at me.

Ignoring him, Atreh turned back towards me, levering out the stopper with one fingernail. He dipped his index finger into the contents, and I had just time to see that this was some kind of white paint before he was daubing it on my face.

Despite my initial startlement, I realised almost immediately what he was painting on me, if not why. The familiar /\\_/\ took shape, superimposed on the scar where Syach had tried to tear a lump out of my face.

The fact that he was emphasising my possession of what I'd since discovered to be an extremely strong and rare tribe mark was not reassuring in the least. He was out to make a point to somebody, one he didn't mean to be either missed or misunderstood. Trouble was, I didn't know what the hell point he was making, or (even more importantly) why he should feel he needed to make it. The only thing I _did_ know was that it meant trouble, and specifically trouble for me.

The mark was associated with protection, both because real wolves were known to be incredibly protective of their families and because apparently their thunder god Bracu was supposed to ride on a wolf. I didn't have enough command of the niceties to quite get the full picture, but the People had some kind of belief that thunder was the sound of Bracu's wolf warning away evil spirits, while its rider threw flaming spears to reinforce the message. A daft enough idea when you knew anything about meteorology, but these simple people didn't have a clue, and I supposed it was a comforting way to look at an alarming phenomenon – the noise and flashes took on a whole new significance once you believed they were on your side.

Once I'd found out the whole 'protector' thing I'd been quite pleased; it seemed highly appropriate, and I was reluctantly impressed by Vais' perceptiveness. Admittedly the wolf identity held a bit of resonance with my distant past that I found uncomfortable, and I wasn't so pleased by being associated with the mythical side of things, but there wasn't a lot I could do about that. Now, as I followed Atreh when he resumed walking, I found myself wondering grimly if the mythical angle was one I could find some way to exploit if the worst came to the worst.

There was little doubt as to where we were going. There was only one tent in the whole gathering, hung with red pennants that stirred in the evening wind. Overhead the sky was clearing, a pale, washed blue behind the broken cloud. I looked up to see if there were any stars visible yet; one or two of the brightest were already peeping out here and there, and I wondered with the old familiar ache whether _Enterprise_ was anywhere among them.

There were guards on duty at the tent, but they'd obviously had their orders. They pulled back the twin flaps to let us enter, and I ducked inside, blinking my eyes to help them adjust to the lower light within.

The tent was heated by braziers filled with wood that gave off a pleasant enough smell, but also a certain amount of smoke (like everything else around here, it was probably damp). Light was provided by lanterns attached to the tent-poles overhead, and around each a hazy aurora testified to the insufficient ventilation.

It took me a moment to run a rapid headcount. Assuming the thirty or so blokes who were standing around them were advisors, officials and flunkies-in-general, the seventeen who were seated in a rough circle must be the chiefs. Certainly Briai's presence among them supported that theory.

"They wish to question you," Atreh told me in a low voice. "Stand in the centre, and speak only when you are [bidden]."

There was a space left in the circle that was large enough to walk through, and I did so, as he moved without haste to stand behind his father. It didn't need magic to tell me the situation had suddenly become very tense. I darted a single glance at him, and he looked as though he was keeping his mouth shut only by a superhuman effort.

I recognized Rakhor and Thais, of course; the former nodded at me, and the latter whispered something to his neighbour and grinned. Briai held my gaze straightly, his face impassive, but something about the set of his shoulders suggested he was very angry.

As I came to a halt, facing him, I delivered the customary formal gesture of respect, left fist to right collar-bone. Then old habit took over and I dropped into the 'parade rest' posture, hands linked lightly behind my back. "You summoned me, Lord, and I am here," I said clearly.

He glanced at one or two of the others, as though expecting them to speak, but nobody did. Finally, he drew a deep breath; let it out; then breathed in again and spoke as though he loathed every word that came out of his mouth.

"LefTenAnt Malcolm Reed, you are accused of sorcery."


	44. Chapter 44: Reed

Whatever else I'd expected – _whatever_ else I'd expected – it wasn't that.

I was so astonished I actually laughed. Then I realised it was no laughing matter.

These men were serious.

"You – _what?_ " I said blankly.

One of the other chiefs leaned forward. "Do you deny casting a spell over rocks, to make them burn?"

Two thoughts leaped into my head. First was relief, that this was nothing to do with the trick we'd played on Syach, which had been my immediate reaction; the second was the sickening realisation that this accusation must have come from someone in our own party.

The whole thing felt just like a bad dream. I'd believed that showing the warriors that coal burns would be enormously beneficial; certainly once they'd got over their surprise, everyone had seemed delighted by the discovery. Now it seemed that my revelation had played into somebody's hands – someone who'd lost no time in springing the trap I'd effectively laid for myself.

We'd hardly bloody got here and we were already fighting amongst ourselves. No wonder Briai was furious.

Almost as furious as I was with myself, for my own naïveté in believing that just because my chief enemy Makia had been left behind in the village, I was therefore without any enemies at all. A woman like that will always have 'friends', and I should have thought of that. How soft was I _getting_ in my old age?

My anger made me less tactful than I probably should have been. "Of course I deny it," I retorted. "It is not a spell. It is what those rocks do. Wherever you find them, anyone who puts them into a fire will make them burn."

One of the other chiefs was wearing some kind of pendant around his neck, made of polished black stone. He took this off and tossed it into the nearby brazier. "It does not burn," he pointed out triumphantly. "My priest cast powerful spells over it, to protect it from this man's sorcery. And, see! It does not burn!"

I strode over to the brazier and used the tip of my belt knife to fish the pendant out of the glowing wood. Of course it wouldn't burn; it was made of obsidian. Volcanic glass.

It occurred to me to wonder whether his bloody priest had been hired to ensure the sun came up every morning.

However, as I stared down at the piece of stone, wondering in despairing fury how I was going to get out of _this_ , the thought came to me that it might actually be a development in my favour.

As just another tribesman in the train of one of the chiefs, I wasn't in a position to push forward and give unasked advice. At a guess, they had their own 'experts' to give them any suggestions they might need on how to prosecute the upcoming battle. However, given what I'd learned up till now about the nature of their small, occasional inter-tribal squabbles, I put little faith on the quality of the suggestions that would probably be put forward; I'd bet my last penny that a good half of it would be superstitious twaddle. With the best will in the world – and I was sure that there were some highly intelligent men among the host, who'd do their damnedest to put together a sound plan of attack – their knowledge of this kind of warfare was fatally limited.

But if I _wasn't_ just another tribesman…

The irony was enough to choke me. I couldn't remember how often I'd got up Captain Archer's nose for being unwilling to take risks. Having led the life I had in the Section, I _hated_ risks; I'd seen too much of what they led to. Most of my team's successes had come through exploiting the weaknesses of people who hadn't been quite careful enough. Occasionally, even after I'd been aboard _Enterprise_ for a couple of years, I woke up in the night from dreams so vivid I had to go and wash my hands before I could even think of trying to go back to sleep…

I sighed.

In my mind, a padlock slipped loose.

When I lifted my head, I knew it was no longer Malcolm Reed they were looking at.

A swift flick of the knife, and the pendant went sailing through the air towards its owner, who went to catch it and then wisely decided not to. It hadn't been in the brazier for long, but the surface of it was probably still uncomfortably warm.

"I think Briai has told you my story," I said, spreading my sweetest smile around the assembly. "Would a great chief _not_ want the services of a guardian who could perform powerful spells?"

Well. I'll admit it was a tad misleading. But then again, we'd been having so little success in our hunt for the Xindi that I'm quite sure the captain would have leaped at the chance to acquire the services of a powerful sorcerer if he'd been offered them. It would have been a heck of a lot more use to him than those of the over-cautious Tactical Officer he actually had.

There was a general movement of retreat-intention. Since the chairs were on turf rather than solid flooring there couldn't be a squeal of them being shoved back, but the effect was very much the same.

"Where … where are you from?" asked one of the other chiefs, a bit hoarsely.

I let my gaze go long. "When a man looks towards the sunset, sometimes he will see a land shining beyond the horizon. _That_ is my country." It was a gamble, but not a big one; I knew that the Plains reached the ocean on their western borders. A quick indrawn breath and a nod from one of the men told me I'd hit the bullseye.

A sudden pang of memory had to be stifled. The house – _my_ house now. That glimpse through the book-room window of the slice of sunset-glowing sea and the land beyond: the Land of Lyonesse…

Would I ever go back to make my home there?

Well, I certainly wouldn't if I made a balls-up of this. All my efforts to date had been aimed at fitting in, and now at one stroke I'd undone all of it. And yet, even given the bigger numbers than I'd dared hope for, there was still a cold stone of certainty sitting in my stomach that we were up against an enemy against whom numbers were no guarantee of success. They needed my expertise, and if I had to be a sorcerer in order to get them to pay attention, well then I'd be a sorcerer. Things might get a bit complicated if they actually demanded me to perform any spells, but I'd deal with that when it came. After all, they could demand, but they couldn't actually _force_ me….

What the ramifications of my claims would be afterwards, was something I pushed to the back of my mind. All I had to think of now was how I could possibly ensure there would be an afterwards that didn't involve slaughter and slavery for the whole People.

 _Jessa…_

With the hard efficiency of a Section operative I slammed the door on that particular issue. Right now it would only affect my judgement, and I couldn't afford that.

"The great chief called you up?" asked my pendant-owning accuser, now wearing the triumph of vindication.

I nodded. Carefully I avoided looking at Atreh. "He knew he would need very strong protection."

"But nevertheless you were overcome. The evil tribe's sorcerers sent you here."

Reeds are good at 'haughty'. I produced a look that old Uncle Alastair himself couldn't have bettered if he'd been interrupted in mid-flow on a pronunciation of sentence from the King's Bench. "His need was less great than that of the People. I was given my orders." I said the last sentence slowly and with emphasis, and turned my head, equally slowly, giving them all the full effect of the mark on my cheek. If I'd have had any idea of what was coming I'd have added a lightning-bolt through it.

"Syach." Briai uttered only the one word.

I hadn't wanted to look at him either, but I had to. I'm not sure he was all that surprised, but he couldn't hide the hurt. He'd accepted me, trusted me, and all along I'd been lying to him. Behind the Section mask, pain and shame knifed through me.

"Syach is a great King Horse," I said as gently as I could. "But I could not let him stop me."

He turned his head away.

"So." Rakhor spoke after a long silence. "It seems we must believe that you are who you say you are." He looked around the circle of his fellow chiefs. "Unless any of my brothers have anything to urge against it."

A few looked doubtful. I suspected that some were carried along by my air of confidence, while others were scared of the possible consequences of offending a sorcerer who could perform such powerful spells as making coal combustible… I hoped that at least some were swayed mostly by the hope that I actually knew what I was talking about. Most of all I hoped, as one after another nodded, that I was actually good enough to do what I claimed to be able to do.

"Then, sorcerer, tell us what we must do."

I took a deep breath. _First rule: Choose your ground._

"I wish to speak to all of your warriors who have the greatest knowledge of all the land between us and the Others. I wish to see it as a bird sees it, as an eagle sees it when he flies. Then, when I see it, I will be able to plan how I can use my sorcery to help the Tribes to victory."

Rakhor nodded. "In the morning we shall send out word and a council shall be summoned, and you shall have all the knowledge that we can [provide] for you. But in the meantime we chiefs have much to talk of. Until then, you should return to your clan."

"No." Briai's veto fell like an axe. "He will not dwell among my people. He will be kept among the priests, so that he can work no more spells."

I hadn't seen it coming. I stared at him blankly. If I'd wanted to work spells on the men I'd ridden with, couldn't I have done it already? What the fuck did he think I was likely to do to them now, now that I'd come to live or die with them?

"Jessa," I said.

He glared at me. His tribe mark was that of the Bear, and in this mood he was as dangerous as a grizzly protecting its cubs. "When you were a man among men, then Jessa was a woman and could follow the prompting of the Great Mother as she saw fit.

"Now you admit you are a sorcerer, the case is different: Jessa is a maid, and a maid under my protection. I was afraid from the first that you would bring her sorrow, even without intending it, and now it has come.

"Everything that you wish, you shall have: food and shelter and all the knowledge you ask for. Our riders will ride at your command. But Jessa you shall not have."

Pain and anger almost choked me. "And will you say the same after I have bought you your victory?"

"After you have bought us our victory, we shall see what happens. But until then, Jessa is my [responsibility]. I will have her no sorcerer's plaything. This is my word, and my tribe will obey it."

I performed the traditional gesture of reverence, exaggerated to sarcasm. "So be it, Lord. As a member of your tribe, I too will obey. _At least until after the battle_."

Too furious to stand still, I swung on my heel and strode out of the tent. Then – a Reed keeps his word – I swerved around the side of the structure and folded up to sit cross-legged, ignoring the curious looks from those around me. If Briai wanted me kept among the priests, he could bloody well arrange for me to be taken there; it wasn't my responsibility to wander around playing guessing games as to where I was supposed to be kept out of mischief.

After a couple of moments, I heard the sound of the tent flap again, and feet walked around towards me. I didn't look up, but I recognised the way that the cords binding his deerskin leggings were finished off with eagle feathers. Atreh's tribe mark was that of the Eagle, one almost as revered as the Wolf.

"I am ordered to take you to the priests," he said tonelessly.

There seemed nothing to say. I rose to my feet.

I couldn't help casting one anguished look back in the direction from which I'd come, so short a time ago. In the direction of the place where Jessa would be waiting for me, innocently thinking that night would be the same as all the previous ones; that I'd be there for her, there to protect and comfort her. But for all my anger at being forcibly separated from her, even I had to admit that Briai was acting in her best interests as he saw them; if I'd believed in sorcerers I wouldn't have wanted one shagging a woman I cared about either.

And though I wasn't a sorcerer of course, I was now someone even worse.

Atreh led the way silently through the crowds of warriors settled around their fires. At a guess he had nothing to say to me, but then I could hardly imagine what he could say if he'd wanted to.

Suddenly, however, as we crossed a little space between one cluster of fires and the next, he whirled around and faced me.

I stopped – I had no option, unless I wanted to swerve around him and keep walking. Though I'll admit I was tempted to do so; I had no appetite, just then, for the recriminations he must be waiting to heap on my head.

I suppose I'd forgotten, in a way, what a very formidable young man he was. Close to, I could feel the anger radiating from him.

But when he spoke, so low that only the two of us could hear, his words were unexpected.

"Why have you told lies to the chiefs?"

I looked at him narrowly. "Maybe they are not lies."

He spat. "I am not a fool, Malcolm Reed; do not treat me as one. You are no sorcerer. You are an honourable man, but you are no more than a man. Now tell me why you lied."

I was silent, thinking fast. Time was when I'd have defied him, have gone on to plough my solitary furrow, regardless of what it cost him or Jessa; because whatever it _did_ cost them, I couldn't lose sight of the ultimate goal, which was to make sure they survived and stayed free. But maybe my time aboard _Enterprise_ had softened me, because I'd discovered that friendships mattered – and that other people didn't always let you down.

"There is much I cannot tell you," I said at last, carefully. "But I can tell you this: that your people have never fought a battle such as this will be. They do not know what it will be like, they do not know how this enemy will fight. And I am sure – if I am sure of nothing else – that unless I have the ordering of the battle, they will die. Bravely, but they will die."

His eyes dissected me. Vais had chosen Atreh's tribe mark with his usual pinpoint precision: the eagle, the master of keen sight.

"And the coal? And Syach?" he asked.

I gave a snort of bitter laughter. "The coal is what I said it was in the beginning. There is no sorcery in it at all. It is only that no-one here has discovered it, and that is the all of it.

"The chief's necklace did not burn because it was a different type of rock. If it had been made of coal it would have burned, no matter what prayers a priest had said over it.

"As for Syach – that tale is not mine to tell. There was no sorcery. Trickery maybe, but that was all. I dared not take the chance he would kill me. The People would die, and that I could not risk."

He exhaled. "So all this tale of sorcery is simply to ensure your wisdom is heeded."

I almost put out a hand, but thought better of it and drew it back. "I know how it sounds. But believe me, if you have ever believed anything in this life: that I know what I speak of. And that if I thought that courage would be enough, I would never have claimed to be a sorcerer, but instead I would fight and die alongside you." I laid my hand across my tribe mark and spoke with all the weight I could put into the words. "This is the truth. I swear it by the Storm Wolf."

For long moments more he studied me.

"You have deceived those who do not know you as I know you," he said at last. "Briai is too borne down by care to think clearly, but the time will come when he will realise you have lied. I do not know how he will react."

He paused again, and went on. "But I know that you have sacrificed your life among the tribe, and I know what this meant to you. Among other things."

 _Jessa_ , I thought, and gazed back at him steadily, fighting to show nothing; though I think he knew, well enough.

"So. Because my heart told me to trust you when you were the stranger fighting alongside me against the Outcasts, I will trust it now.

"I will speak and act as though your lie is the truth. Whatever I can do to convince others that you should be obeyed because of your sorcery, I will do. Whatever I can do to prove to others that the fellowship between us is at an end, I will do. From here on, you are a stranger."

His index finger travelled slowly to the centre of his chest, and touched it. Then his hand moved with that same ceremonious slowness to his shoulder and the brand that lay there, hidden by his sleeve, and his palm closed across it. "But I swear, that if the gods permit me to live, I shall remain your friend at need.

"Tell your lies as you will, LefTenAnt Malcolm Reed, and I will keep your secret. But if you wish to speak to me alone, as I speak to you now, then use the Name that Vais saw in you. And I swear by the Sun Horse that when the Wolf calls, the Eagle will answer."

I would have responded to that, but there was a shameful lump in my throat that just for a moment made speech impossible. I suspect he understood that, for he reached out and put a hand on my tribe mark, perhaps sealing the oath he had just taken. "And one last thing," he said more quietly. "I know, as you know, that the end of this trail is hidden from both of us. But know that if the God sees fit that I live through the days that have come upon us, but that you should not, the care of your … of those you care for, will be my first concern for all my days."

 _Oh, bloody hell._ I hadn't expected that. Just for a moment, the enormity of what I'd done – what I was _doing_ – broke over me like a sodding great wave. He was all but telling me he didn't expect me to survive; well, I could live with that; but at least the worst burden of all had been taken off my shoulders. Jessa would have the protection of a good man, a strong man. If I couldn't leave her anything else, at least I could leave her that.

His other hand clasped my other shoulder. I still couldn't speak, but I don't think speech was necessary. I pulled him in close, and we just hugged. The People aren't nearly as hung-up about physical contact as your average Englishman, and I suppose I'd caught on a bit. At any rate, it felt absolutely natural, and when we finally separated I felt as though something inside me that had been on the point of breaking had been shored up. Not restored – I wasn't sure it ever could be – but at least now I could go on.

To wherever the WolfRider led me.


	45. Chapter 45: Jessa

I was sorting through my medicine bag (and wishing I had far more of everything in it) when Atreh returned.

Naturally I looked for Malcolm also. When I did not see him, I was not overmuch concerned to begin with; it would make sense that the chiefs would wish to speak to him at length. Doubtless news of his arrival would have travelled across the Plains as gossip always travels.

I was a little surprised, however, that Atreh had left him to find his way back to us alone; despite Malcolm's being able to speak our tongue well enough by now, there was little doubt that he would be a source of wonder to the tribesmen too, and suspicion to some. I could only hope that the Truce would be thought to apply to even adopted members of Briai's clan, however strange they might appear to others. Still, I knew well that my stallion had fighting skills quite unknown to the Tribes (I had not been exempt from the 'self-defence' classes he had organised for the women), and I was confident enough that if challenged he was more than capable of looking to his own safety.

Ai! I hardly paid any attention at all when my old friend stepped to the open ground beside the fire and began to speak. Yet within the first couple of words he had my attention well enough. I could hardly believe what he was saying.

"The LefTenAnt will not be returning to us." His voice was hard and carrying, as he doubtless meant it to be. "He was charged by the Lord Oriche with sorcery, and he has admitted the charge."

 _"What?"_ Bihiv leaped to his feet. I was too frozen to move. "He has _admitted_ it?"

"Fully and freely." The face I had always thought handsome was graven in stone. "He is to be kept among the priests until the battle. Briai has commanded it, for the safety of the Tribe. None here are to approach him, or to speak with him if he finds ways of attempting to communicate. As far as we of the Longtail tribe are concerned, he is an Outcast."

"And after the battle?"

I heard Bihiv's demand through the ringing in my ears. _Outcast, Outcast…_ I imagined the knife cuts in his cheeks, and the blood springing, mixed with ash driven home…

I would go with him. Wherever he went I would go, even if it was to death. I remembered words he had murmured against my hair one night: ' _Wherever thou goest I will go, and wherever thou livest I will live; Thy people will be my people, and thy god my god…'_ He said they were words from his people's Holy Book, and when he translated them they moved me almost to tears.

It had amazed me when I first discovered he could read and write, and that even the lowest among his people possessed these skills; among the People only the greatest of the priest-kind are taught the knowledge of understanding the Sacred Marks. Nevertheless, even though we do not make the marks we have our Story Tellers and our Singers, who draw the Tales in pictures of fire on a winter's evening so that everyone from greatest to least sits entranced to listen. The night Malcolm revealed those words to me I thought that whoever wrote them had been a Story Teller beyond praise, to catch the words of a maid's heart and set them down where even the gods might read them.

I was on my feet. I did not even remember moving. "Take me to him."

Atreh looked back at me steadily. "Briai forbids it."

Until that moment I had not known I could feel such rage, but when I spoke my voice was steady and cold. "He has no right."

"He is your Tribe Lord and he has every right. If you have been ensorcelled his duty is to protect you."

 _Ensorcelled!_ I could have laughed, wept, screamed. Enchanted perhaps, but ensorcelled? Never, not until the sun rose in the west and set in the east, would I believe that Malcolm Reed was a sorcerer. He was too much a man for that. What need did he have for sorcery over me, when with one look from him I would have risen and followed him to the end of the world?

Clearly my thoughts must have shown too plainly in my face, for Atreh stepped closer. "Hear me in this, Jessa, I will have you bound if you try to go to him. I will not have you endangered."

"Endangered!" Now I did scream, uncaring of anyone who heard. "Endangered, by the man who cares for nothing but protecting his brothers! By the man who has done nothing but serve the village since he came to it! By the man who has lain with me night after night, the only one to treat me not only as a woman, but as his equal!

"Great Mother! If anyone is ensorcelled, it is Briai, to believe such nonsense!"

His own anger ignited. Small wonder – I had just insulted his soul-sire, and a man of far lesser mettle than Atreh would have taken offence. With two swift strides he closed the remaining distance between us.

He was intimidating at close quarters, but I did not care, for all his height. I matched him glare for glare. Was he also ensorcelled, that he believed such folly?

His hands closed on my shoulders, and were not gentle. He put his head down, so that our faces were almost touching. Despite the pressure of his fingers on my flesh, his expression was now desperately earnest, as was his voice when he spoke. "Jessa, if you have ever trusted me, I ask you to trust me now."

 _Trust_ him, when he wished to keep me from my beloved in such deadly danger? I pulled my head back, my glare unabated, and opened my mouth to hurl defiance of folly and forbiddance and all.

And yet, I did trust him. I had always trusted him, and he had never failed me yet.

My mouth closed, with the words of defiance unuttered. For a long moment I measured him. "I will be guided by you," I said at last, stiffly. "But for all my brown eyes, I too have my honour. And if the Goddess prompts me to go to him in his need, then I will go."

"That is all I ask of you," he responded gently. "I thank you, Jessa."

He released me and stepped back. The others of the tribe had also heard, and there were many troubled and anxious looks; Bihiv slipped an arm around my waist. "There is no doubt?" he pleaded.

Atreh shook his head. "He has admitted to it," he repeated. "In my hearing, he said that his purpose is to ensure we defeat The Others. If that requires sorcery…"

He was not the only one to look dubiously at the jars containing the 'bitumen' that we had carried into camp and set to one side.

I, however, was looking around for those to whom this news of Malcolm's fall would be neither unexpected nor unwelcome. I knew they would be there, and it was therefore no surprise to me when I encountered Bradda's hastily-hidden smirk of satisfaction. He had always been Roish's man, and he had been one of the outriders first into camp; it would have been the work of moments for him to have poured his poison into waiting ears. All know that the priest-kind cleave to their own, and Roish had never forgiven Malcolm for being found in the Sacred Cave – or for being the innocent cause of that brat of hers being beaten for his ill manners. She had found little support in our own village, but there would be many ready ears in others. More: doubtless when Rakhor and Thais had visited, Makia had taken the opportunity to drip poison into any accommodating ear. As the talk of the stranger had spread, so, in all probability, had the poison. Too many are too eager to think ill of those they do not know.

"If it requires sorcery, then we should only be thankful to the Gods that we have a sorcerer," I said, loudly and with all the scorn I could put into the words. "And it may even be that those wretches who have worked ill for him this day will have cause to be grateful for any 'sorcery' he works on our behalf. If, indeed, they know the meaning of gratitude."

To do him justice, Bradda had the grace to redden slightly at that. He was not a bad man, simply weak and easily led. And I had noticed before that love makes fools of the best; this was certainly true in Atreh's case, though I thought that that particular folly was waning. While Makia was able to show him naught but her sweetest face and accommodating body, he had been deceived. Since Malcolm's coming, however, some of that external gloss had been torn away, revealing the ugliness beneath. Lately I had occasionally caught him watching her with something close to distaste rather than the admiration that had so galled me before, knowing it misguided – and (the Goddess forgive me for rejoicing in another's loss!) I was more thankful than I could express that he was no longer the captive he had been.

Well. There was no more I could do for the present. As Atreh walked away to his own fire I sat down again and began to re-pack the contents of my medicine bag, which had spilled on to the ground as I stood up. My actions were simply out of habit, however. My heart and mind were far away, mourning and raging with my separated lover, falsely accused.

Falsely, I was sure; but Atreh said he had admitted it. Why should he have done so, when it was not true? I did not understand, but still my trust in him was absolute. I sent out my spirit to touch his, as I had done so often at the peak of our pleasure, and the memory sent shudders of longing through me that I prayed he would feel. _Yes, love … yes… now… oh yes…_ Almost I could hear him crying out, and had to bite my lip not to cry out in answer.

Across the fire from me, Bihiv sat also down, his lips shaping unheard curses, and began sharpening the blade of his knife, which was already sharp enough to cut the wind. Still in the year of his Proving, by the reckoning of the People he was hardly more than a boy; but he was old enough to carry a borrowed sword in battle, and more than old enough to die on one.


	46. Chapter 46: Reed

The whole damned army might yet live to be thankful that there were enough of their commanders who had the sense to understand what I needed, I thought, as we finally stared down into the valley I'd chosen for our stand against the enemy.

It had taken very little analysis of the map of the surrounding landscape that I'd finally managed to cobble together from a dozen (sometimes rather conflicting) reports before I knew where the battle must be fought. Lacking any better writing implements, I'd drawn it with a dye-dipped finger on the back of a cured hide, and finally, after a lot of astonished peering and debate, the chiefs agreed that it was a fair enough representation. It was true enough, what I had gathered from the tribesmen of the village: the Great Plains covered an enormous area, but they were accurately named. The People's lands stretched from one side of the continent to the other, and for probably hundreds of kilometres there were no significant features at all, except for a few rivers that delineated the boundaries of the chiefs' territories. At a guess they lay on pretty northerly latitudes, and glaciation had probably scoured them level as well as removing a lot of the fertile topsoil. What remained was good grazing land, but there was not enough depth in many places to support real woodland.

The battleground I'd selected was in one of the few places that was an exception to this. By whatever freak of geology it had happened, there was an area where the land buckled into a steep-sided valley and enough soil had accumulated there to provide footing for a good belt of forest, containing some extremely solid trees. These were a valuable commodity in a land where timber was a rarity, and Plahik, the chief in whose territory it lay, was a wealthy man.

Fortunately he was also a sensible man, and did little more than grimace resignedly when I told him that if things went according to plan his precious trees might be toast.

"Trees can grow again, in a free land," he'd said with a shrug. He wore his fair hair very long, and the little gold charms woven into the braids tinkled as his shoulders shifted. "Freedom will be a rare plant anywhere if we do not defeat The Others."

"Very true, my lord," I said, grinning at him (we sorcerers are a disrespectful lot towards our betters). "So with your kind permission, we will get ourselves moving and make our preparations."

And that was all it had taken. It was like being a lowly cadet in charge of seventeen admirals; I gave the orders and they obeyed.

Except that I knew _exactly_ where the limits of that obedience lay. And Briai's people were on the other side of a line drawn as though someone had scored it in the earth: Bihiv and Atreh (Orran had been left behind, in charge of the defence of the village) and Jessa, all lost to me.

I had my horse. I suppose that was a comfort of sorts. Maybe they were afraid I might have put a spell on Hayes as well. But his presence made me horribly aware of how lonely I was, because he was the only living creature I had to talk to. I'd grown used to being one of a tightly-knit family, with a quality like and yet unlike that I'd acquired on board _Enterprise_ ; I'd grown used to belonging again. And now I rode – admittedly, unconstrained in any way – in a pool of almost absolute silence. Nobody allowed their horse to come within two metres of mine. Nobody talked to me. If I succumbed to my occasional urges to make mischief by forcing conversation I was answered in monosyllables until I got so bored I lapsed into silence again. I was handed my food and water rations in silence, and ate them in silence.

I suppose it shouldn't have bothered me as much as it did. After all, I'd never been the social centre of the universe when I was in my own world. But I was still ridiculously relieved when we finally breasted the slight rise beyond which the valley fell away, and I was finally able to see the land from which I was supposed to wrench a victory.

The men who'd described it to me had done a pretty good job of it. Just as they'd said it did, the high ground fell off in cliffs into the valley, and the trees crowded at the foot of these. It was very pretty, in an autumnal sort of way; there were softwoods in among the pines, and these were flaming into colour. The low ground was almost bisected by the small, shallow river that tumbled down the broken cliff at the top and went racing down towards the sea.

Plahik had sent outriders ahead and these had been busy. Off to one side I could see the place where a stand of stout juvenile trees were under attack. Several had been already felled and lay stripped of their branches.

I scanned the layout of the middle of the valley. Just as I'd hoped, the growth of the trees was confined mostly to the outer edges; doubtless occasional winter floods tore out any hopeful saplings that took root too near the river. But the cold hadn't yet bitten hard enough to do more than yellow the undergrowth, and there was more than enough of it to provide ample cover. Better yet, there were good numbers of young trees all down the valley, many of them still slender and springy enough to be perfect for my purposes.

The army had moved fairly slowly. We were aware by now that the enemy knew where we were, and was in pursuit. Nevertheless they were still some distance away, and I suspected they were waiting to corner us when we settled. I didn't want them thinking that the valley had been our destination all along, though. For that reason I'd set a course that originally would have taken us past it by some distance, heading for a range of mountains whose tips were now visible on the horizon. I wanted their scouts to report our diversion towards the valley as though it was a sudden change of plan – and a foolish one at that. For all that I wanted us there because it was a superbly defensible position, it could as well be seen as a perfect trap. Once they had us pinned in there, the few goat-trails that led up the cliffs at the back would be nothing like enough to allow more than a handful to escape.

Our scouts had confirmed that so far my plans had worked. As soon as they were sure that our change of direction was genuine, the enemy's pace had upped considerably. They could see the possibilities as clearly as I could. If we were so obliging as to walk into a trap of our own volition, they were more than willing to spring it. Even if we weren't foolish enough to actually enter the valley, it would still be waiting there, a perfect killing ground for them to drive us into and mop us up at their leisure.

It has to be said that The Others weren't the only ones who had functioning intelligence. Quite a number of looks on our own side said that the possibility of my having brought us here to be served up on a plate had occurred to them. But at least now I could actually see the lay of the land, I could put the finishing touches to the plan I'd devised.

I was under no illusions. Even given my current status as the army's pet sorcerer, it wasn't going to be an easy sell.

Not when it involved half of them running away.

=/\=

I might have been more patient (and diplomatic) if I hadn't been aware that the enemy was getting closer every second. As it was, I ended up addressing the assembly as though they were a parcel of first year Academy recruits who'd held a drunken food party in the Armoury.

Fortunately, I think more than half of them were too stunned by my colossal insolence to know how to respond to it. Most of them probably believed that anyone who had the balls to speak to them in such a way had to be practically God in person. Needless to say, I wasn't going to disabuse them of that particular belief.

I certainly wasn't going to mention that my plan was desperate at best, but I definitely _did_ mention – at considerable length – that every part of it depended on every single one of the tribesmen playing their part. Everyone had to understand the plan and everyone had to stick to it. They didn't have to like it and, I continued in my best Lieutenant-Reed-the-terror-of-Starfleet bark, I didn't give a shit if they thought that as plans went it was about on a par with kicking Syach in the bollocks, as long as they went along with it.

I don't know even now if it was once again my apparent confidence, or simple fear of the consequences of failing to heed my advice, that carried the day. I know that not a man-jack of them there liked it, but at the end of a long and stormy session, I got my way. They all understood the plan and they all agreed to go back to their individual tribes and give out the orders, disseminating the plan exactly as I'd hammered it out. I didn't much envy them that, but as things stood it was our only chance.

=/\=

We cut it fine. Damn near _too_ fine. We worked like bloody Trojans to get it done, but we were just putting the last touches to our handiwork when the scouts we'd had in place came galloping in to tell us that the enemy was in sight.

The Others had found us.


	47. Chapter 47: Jessa

After all the years of speculation, The Others had come.

Some had doubted that they existed at all. Many had scoffed at the idea that (if they existed) they would have any interest whatsoever in the People. After all, if it was true that they lived in huge tents made of stone, and ruled over great lands of their own, why should they feel any interest in a people who had so little wealth or learning, and who lived a life that often walked the very edge of bare survival?

But whatever their reasons, they had come. We were able to see them in the flesh, though their faces were hidden, like the rest of their bodies, in some dark metallic stuff that coated them like the carapace of a scorpion.

They were too far away to make out many details. The scouts had spoken truly when they told that The Others walked in squares, moving as one man. The army had materialised out of the dusk, but instead of continuing to advance they had simply stopped dead and sat down. And there they stayed, in silent, motionless ranks, as the night closed in. Their intention was clear. When they were ready, and the order was given, they would come for us.

They were so many! Even at this distance I could see the numbers beyond counting.

My flesh crawled. How could even the host the Tribes had assembled prevail against such an enemy?

Malcolm had been right. Gods! He had been right all along, to fear our ability to face such a foe. If they fought as they moved (and he had been adamant that they would), we had no experience in combating it. Although I still trusted him implicitly, I wondered how he had come by such knowledge. He had never spoken much of that other life – the life in which the unknown Hoshi lived and breathed and held his heart; and I, woman-like, had wished only for him to forget it all. I knew that he had fought and killed, but I could not believe he had found joy in it. He was my gentle warrior, and even though I looked around now in the desperate hope that I might glimpse him even in the distance, I already knew that he had ridden out to get a better look at the enemy. For all my official isolation from him, there were many of our people who passed me word every day of whatever scraps of his doings and sayings blew in the wind, doubtless hoping with these small rough kindnesses to ease the misery that I am sure showed in my face. If one strange blessing had come from these evil days, it was that far less seemed to be thought lately of the colour of my eyes. Finally, it was not only Atreh who spoke to me as simply one among the tribe.

Tomorrow, without a doubt, battle would come. By next sunset, many here would breathe no more. If I was still alive I would be all that stood between our wounded and the Bridge to the Eternal Grazing Lands, and for all that I could do I knew that many would cross it regardless. My three helpers were the best of the women, and I had no doubt of their courage and willingness, but they had little experience (not that I had much, not of the scale of injuries I would be called on to deal with, or of the numbers there would be). The other tribes would naturally have brought their own Healers. It would have been sensible for us to have combined our forces, setting up a central location where all the wounded could be brought, but my association with 'the sorcerer' had put an end to all thought of that. I had argued in vain that a man with his belly laid open will care nothing if he is treated by a sorcerer's woman, so that he is treated by somebody. It seemed that most of the fools who wore a Healer's robe would rather their fellows died of their wounds if the alternative was to be healed by me.

If I was alive. I knew there was a good chance that I might not be. Or if I was, I might be one of the screaming things being used for The Others' pleasure.

If Malcolm was with me I knew he would have spared me that. I could spare myself, if I had time; a scalpel can be used for mercy. But it would be so much easier if I could look into his wonderful grey eyes for one last time, knowing that I would hardly have set foot on the Bridge before he was there to take my hand.

One last time.

There would be no last time. Briai had not relented. Atreh would have told me at once if this was so – and ai! on what wings I would have flown to my beloved!

I could not bear the memory of how lightly I had let him go from me, that last time. I had smiled – I am sure, even now, that I smiled – and he had smiled back reassuringly, with the hint of a blown kiss. But he was going with Atreh, and what danger could there possibly be in that?

What, indeed. He had not returned. Now I was left to the real possibility that I would never see him again in this life; never feel the touch of his hands or the passion of his mouth. That that final image of him walking away through the camp, light and dark beside Atreh's tall fairness, would be the last I would ever have.

He would fight, and maybe die, never having known of the child I bore. The weight of the knowledge bore me down into the earth, so that I felt an old, old woman, with all the lamentation of the world on my shoulders. It had been one thing when I had resolved not to tell him, all my intent to keep the burden from his shoulders; now I thought only that it might have given him the best of all reasons to live. That he still did _not_ know, I was sure. Whatever others knew or guessed, they would not speak of it to him. That is a woman's privilege among us, jealously guarded.

Never having known – never having even kissed me farewell, or ridden off to battle with my blessing in his ears! Mother of Mares, I shall never know how I went about my tasks with an unmoved front that day, when all my body and heart and soul was crying out for him. I prayed that even without seeing me again, still he might know my every thought was of him; that without hearing my voice he might believe how I beseeched Bracu to protect him still; that if we were never to meet again in this life, he would believe we would be reunited beyond the Bridge, never to be parted again.

All around me, the People's army waited. High above the stars pricked out as I rode slowly back to the place where I would begin my work tomorrow. How I would have loved to see the storm clouds advance across the night sky, heralds of the WolfRider come to protect his own; but there was only stillness and silence.

And tomorrow, there would be war.


	48. Chapter 48: Reed

Not quite the last throw of the dice.

Almost, but not quite.

I sat in the shadow of a white rock by the side of the river, waiting for the news I knew would come.

It was later than I'd expected, but finally a shadow slithered up to me and nodded, gesturing. I sneaked away at his heel, the pair of us slipping through the night like shadows. Many of the Tribes are superb stalkers, trained to hunt by stealth, and I'd recruited the best to stand watch in pairs forward of our positions, waiting as I was waiting. One was to follow, one was to fetch me.

I'd done my own share of stealth operations in the Section. It served me well as we caught up with the man who'd slipped through our lines, believing he was good enough to get away with it undetected.

As he reached the first camping-place, he straightened up, confident. He was wearing the clothes of a tribesman; his long, loose gold hair glinted in the low firelight, though he held his face a little forward so that the hair hid some of it. As he called out greetings, his voice was clear and easy, his speech vernacular. As I recognised it, for one second incredulous fury froze me where I crouched.

The traitor Zelav had come home.

=/\=

My first instinct was to leap up and knife him where he stood. I controlled it, my mind racing. After all, there was a possibility that he really _had_ come home – that Outcast or no, he had come to join his own people and die with them. Better still: that he had information that he believed would be useful to us. If that was so, I couldn't afford to spurn it, however much I might despise the source. My long-distance reconnaissance earlier had given me much of the information I needed, though not a lot of it was heartening. Anything else he might be able to add would be beyond price. Maybe he'd joined The Others for want of any other future, but felt on sight of his own people that he couldn't fight against them after all. Stranger things had happened, and just then I'd take any luck I could get.

My two scouts obeyed the command of my flicking fingers. They separated a little distance and then appeared in the firelight, casual and innocent. One trailed Zelav – not too closely – and the other came to the edge of the darkness and called me softly. I rose and stepped forward obediently, my head lowered. There was nothing about me to identify me as the sorcerer; I was just another small, mud-smeared scout coming in with news. Nobody around me gave me a second glance as we followed Zelav, now strolling as though without a care in the world towards the chiefs' tent.

Everything depended now on what he did. Our case was so desperate now that if he headed for the tent-opening I'd step up beside him, demanding that he be heard in spite of the scars on his face. If I'd believed in God I'd have prayed as I watched him saunter along between the fires, prayed that for once Fate would give me a break.

So much for Fate's beneficence. At the last moment the bastard quietly turned aside. I knew where he was going; the sentries around the tent were quite widely spaced, and had been ordered to turn a blind eye when they heard the signal. With a bitter smile I touched the arm of each of my scouts, and they too slid away into the dark. As they vanished I heard the _keewik-ick-ick_ of a hunting owl, followed by another.

I loitered for a couple of minutes, apparently deeply interested in the stars, to give him time to get into position. Then, drawing a deep breath, I plunged into the tent. The chiefs were waiting there, their evening meal half-eaten, their conversation now desultory. Probably by this time at least some of them were wondering whether they might as well go back to their own warriors rather than linger here on a fool's errand. Though with luck, they too would have heard the owl-calls, and been alerted by them.

"What is this I am told?" I shouted. "Are the men of the Tribes warriors or cowards?"

Plahik stood up and yelled right back at me, picking up his cue like a natural. "It is not for a warrior to die in the trap you have led us into. We will not fight here. If the men are forced back into this valley they will panic. We are _horse_ warriors!"

"You are fools!" I hissed. "My gods have told me. The Others will not dare to come in here. They fear the water-spirits and the high walls. We have food and water, and we know friends are on their way. All we have to do is wait. If they get tired of waiting they will go away, and we will catch them later; if they wait they will be caught here between two armies. What of that is too simple for you to understand?"

"We will not be given orders by such as you, Son of No-one!" cried Thais, backing his brother chief up manfully; his rather high voice should carry well to the listening ears outside. "Those who will may stay and die with you. We shall make our own judgement, come sunrise!"

"Then go if you will, and may the hells swallow you!" I flung out of the tent, and stormed back the way I'd come. A few minutes later I was back in the darkness, waiting for the _keewik-ick-ick_ to come again; which it presently did.

My eyes had acclimatised to the darkness again by then. Zelav's were still a little dazzled by firelight when he stepped into the brush.

The sheltered river valley was home to many small predators. From the way he suddenly cursed and clapped a hand to his ankle, he thought one of them had bitten him. There would be little to see, when he reached his new masters and reported to them: only a small puncture wound. Probably it wouldn't even be bleeding by then.

I'd spent hours carefully painting a couple of the long thorns with a wisp of wool, building the coating up layer by layer. Viper would have been proud of me. Back in my Section days I hadn't much liked using poison, but I'd learned long ago that it paid to keep a few dirty little secrets to hand. Old habits died hard, it seemed, and the small stout pouch containing the thorns wasn't the only evil little weapon I had secreted on my person by now.

'The wages of sin is death' was a well-known saying back on my own world. The wages of treachery was what Zelav would be paid over the next few hours, and my bow-wielding adviser had assured me that a human-sized victim of this particular thorn-prick would find them so excruciating that death would come as an utter relief. Normally the stuff was used on hunting arrows, ensuring that even a nick would be fatal; the small animals that were the usual victims had far faster circulatory systems, which meant the effects were well-nigh immediate and usually strong enough to cause heart failure. The poison dissipated naturally over a few hours, after which the victim would be perfectly safe to eat. This was the first time ever it would be used in warfare, and Zelav would be its first victim. Thinking of how savagely he'd beaten Jessa, and would have raped her if Atreh hadn't reached them in time to pull him off her, I didn't feel a single twinge of remorse as the stifled yelp from above me told my stab had gone home.

He'd have time to get back and report first, of course. I wasn't stupid.

And above all, I wasn't Lieutenant Malcolm Reed any more.


	49. Chapter 49: Reed

I rolled into my blanket very late, and tried to get to sleep. With the shortening days of autumn it would still be a good few hours till dawn, and I needed to get at least a bit of shut-eye.

Normally I'm pretty good at forcing myself to sleep, even in fairly comfortless conditions; but it wasn't just the worry over the morrow that was keeping me awake this time. With what remained of my life probably to be measured in hours, it seemed a damned waste to spend them sleeping. If Jessa…

 _Jessa_. I'd managed quite successfully to keep her from my thoughts, but now the despair and fear washed over me like a wave. I could imagine the state she must be in, and most of it would be for me. She wouldn't spare a thought for her own safety. If I'd thought I could fix it I'd have had her bundled up in a blanket, thrown over a horse and got away from here completely, but that would be an insult to everything she was. No matter what, she'd want to be here with her people – with _me_ , god help her – facing whatever came.

Trouble was, I knew far better than any of the People what the aftermath of a battle would look like. I'd helped clean up after a few. Admittedly most of them had been fought with far superior weaponry, but the winners still regard the losers as trash, and treat them accordingly. And the women….

In the privacy of my blanket I curled up involuntarily, feeling the anguish of that prospect like a physical agony. More than anything else, if we lost the battle I didn't want her to be taken alive.

Perhaps the only virtue I'd retained as Jag was that I didn't rape; I'd been a liar, a thief, a whore, a murderer even, but not a rapist. Still, I'd seen the victims of it – even had to witness it actually done, once – and the images superimposed themselves on Jessa and were unbearable.

But it wasn't just that which kept me awake, nor the inevitable regrets: regrets for the brief, vanished summer of our happiness that had seemed, at the time, as though it would last forever. I'd thought I'd done everything I could to make Jessa happy, but in retrospect there seemed to have been so many chances I'd missed to do even better, and it was horribly likely now that I'd never have the opportunity to make amends. Whatever the outcome of tomorrow's battle, I knew in my heart of hearts that the idyll was over. Even if I survived and was allowed to come back to the village, nothing would ever be the same again….

It wasn't even the pain of having to finally bid farewell to the last lingering hope that I might ever find my way back to _Enterprise_. For all that I'd made a home for myself here, in my heart of hearts this _wasn't_ my home, and it never would be. However I'd fought to resign myself, a part of me had always clung to the idea that somehow I'd get the chance to go back. The closer I grew to Jessa the more that idea had hurt, the worse the pain it would cost both of us if I'd ever managed to do it, but for all that I knew if the chance had ever presented itself I'd have taken it. I wasn't sure what that made me – probably a selfish, heartless, egotistical prick at best – but I couldn't change who I was, and I _belonged_ there. I was Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, Tactical Officer of the Starship _Enterprise_. The ship needed me. I'd taken my oath to serve, and I was not released from it. Duty had governed my entire life, and it wasn't going to give me up now. Whatever the cost to me – or anyone else.

No; the fear, the regrets and the pain were inevitable, and somehow I fought all of them into the mental boxes where they wouldn't stop me from functioning. There was something else, something that had been nagging me at a subliminal level ever since I'd come back from that surveillance ride. Something that nagged at me as being … not quite right.

It seemed unlikely that I was going to get any sleep with this sodding Feeling I had sitting between my shoulder blades, so I finally sat up, wrapped my blanket around me and shuffled a bit nearer to the fire, which I poked into a last flare of life with the tip of my knife.

All around me the priests who were supposedly my guards were either sleeping or submerged in Trance, completely out of it. If I'd have wanted to I could just have stood up and walked away, and nobody would have noticed. I was quite sure that even in this huge army I could have found my way back to Atreh and the others with very little difficulty, and if I'd been challenged by any of the sentries I knew the password (I should do, I'd _issued_ the damn thing). Once there, I could lose myself in Jessa's willing warmth, and this cold shadow on my back would pass away….

I'm not sure that I've ever been more tempted in my life. I have to confess that several times my muscles tensed to set my feet to the ground, and once I even unwound the blanket from my legs so I'd stand up easily and without sound. But the Feeling pressed still more heavily with every moment that passed, so finally I pushed my rebellion into the abyss of might-have-been and forced all my concentration into remembering exactly what I'd seen on that last ride.

I'd been prepared for the sight of a highly disciplined army, but the order that had confronted me was bordering on the uncanny. Except for the vigilant sentries who patrolled the outskirts, and a large area in the middle where waggons presumably holding their supplies were drawn up in a neat defensive square (at a guess the officers were encamped inside it), every one of the soldiers was simply seated, cross-legged, in the ranks in which they'd marched. Each wore a belt with two knives thrust through it, and had his weapons laid ready in front of him, ready to be snatched up at a moment's notice: two javelins and a short sword. They didn't appear to have eaten, drunk or relieved themselves, or even loosened their armour for a little comfort.

But for the differences in height and build, I'd have been tempted to suspect that I was looking at an army of robots, and even that wasn't a definitive bar; building to a single specific blueprint may be simpler and cheaper, but cost isn't always the most powerful motivator. Back on Earth I'd once visited what remained of the Terracotta Army in what had used to be Shaanxi Province in China, and the image of those hundreds of entirely individual sculptures had stayed with me. It was entirely possible that I was now looking at just such an army, but one that walked and fought, each programmed to inflict the maximum possible damage without reference to its own safety. After all, nobody knew a damn thing about The Others – who they were, or what they wanted, or how advanced their technology was. At the worst, these might not even be The Others themselves, just the vehicle they used to do their dirty work before they swept in afterwards to take the pickings.

The one thing which saved me from that horrible and increasingly plausible notion achieving the status of conviction in my mind was the fact that I'd ridden downwind of them. No amount of discipline will stop a flesh and blood body from sweating during a forced march, and these blokes must have been pressed hard to make up the distance they had. Luckily for them, the weather during the past few days had been dry and cool; in hot weather, that dark armour would have fried them. But although they hadn't stopped – I doubted whether they'd even broken stride – their bodies still functioned. The fitful breeze brought me the unmistakable smell of sweat and worse. It wouldn't do anything to distract them when the time came (except probably worsen their tempers), but at least it told me we were facing an enemy as mortal as we were ourselves.

No, that wasn't it. But still there had been something, _something…_ I found myself drawing long, soft deep breaths, trying to recreate the odours of the distant enemy. If only I'd had the nose of the animal I'd once believed I was, I'd have known so much in an instant. As it was, I was stuck with one of the least efficient senses of any predator on Earth. But even so, there had definitely been something…

…something…

… _something_ that shouldn't have been there, that was out of place….

I rocked back and forth, my hands pressed to my forehead. Something, something, something…

When the answer finally came to me, my heart almost stopped.

I knew what we were facing.


	50. Chapter 50: Atreh

I could not sleep.

I was tired – the Gods knew, we were all tired. But it seemed to me that we would all sleep soundly enough after tomorrow. If this was to be my last night on the green earth, I did not want to waste it sleeping.

We had done all we could. We had put into place all the measures that Malcolm Reed had ordained. I knew, as the whole army knew, what was supposed to happen next day. He would watch from high ground, and had been appointed flag-bearers there so that he could give commands to those fighting below, ensuring his 'tak-tiks' were as effective as they possibly could be. Some muttered that his position there would enable him to run if things went against us, but they were fools, and I did not believe that for a moment. If we did not survive the day, then he would not.

This accusation of sorcery was folly also, despite the charade he had gone through the previous day of supposedly setting spells on the 'bitumen' that, now liquefied by heating the jars, he had had divided into six smaller jars. That he had many secrets I was sure; that he truly was a sorcerer I did not even consider. I suspected whom we had to thank for that accusation, and would speak to Bradda if both he and I survived the battle. Moreover, I resolved that if I was right in my suspicions, Roish would not be exempt from questioning. Priestess or no, she had brought baseless charges against an innocent man, and the Law makes no differentiation in that respect between those who serve in the Sacred Cave and those who do not. Nor would Makia be spared. To knowingly put one of the People (and in the circumstances, _all_ of the People) in hazard of their lives for vengeance is one of the gravest crimes of all, and that it was done chiefly to hurt a woman who had done nothing save serve the village all her life would only make the charge that much more serious.

Everyone had mourned when those three people in the village died of the marsh sickness, Jessa most of all. By the time it passed from the last of the eleven whom she saved, she had been so hollow-eyed with exhaustion from her tireless nursing that I had been afraid she might catch it herself and die because she had no reserves left in her to fight it. Thanks be to the Gods, she did not, and from that day forward I had understood far better how much respect she deserved – and tried to set an example so that others in the village might follow it, regardless of what colour her eyes were.

 _Jessa._

I had seen her, often and often back at the village, watching skylarks rising, her face alive with joy. She loved them so, and now with Malcolm's coming she too had become a skylark, casting off her drab dun colouration and mounting up into the blue heavens with a song to which all the world must stop to listen.

I turned my head. She was asleep at the far side of the fire, and from the shape of her body under its blanket I knew that she had rolled Malcolm's blanket up into a pillow and fallen asleep holding it. Flickers of light from the few small flames that still occasionally danced among the embers gleamed on a bead of moisture that crept from beneath her lashes and joined the track of many others, though her soft, even breathing told me she was still sleeping.

She was weeping for him even in her sleep. I had not seen her shed a single tear while she was awake.

I wondered sometimes whether, if these times had not come upon us, I would ever have seen what she was. Whether I would have lived out my life hypnotised by Makia's beauty and never suspected what was behind it. The custom of men and women living apart allows such illusions to continue, and until Malcolm's arrival I had had no notion that the woman whom I thought of as the Good Goddess come to earth hid the soul of a scorpion. Truly, love blinds even the eagle.

And now it was too late. I did not know if I was capable of inspiring such love in any woman, or even if it was a good thing or a bad. Certainly Jessa had paid dearly for the joy Malcolm had brought her, and was like to pay more dearly still; though I was sure that, given the choice to be spared it, she would have held out her hands and demanded to take it all, though it ended with a spear through her heart.

There was nothing I could do for Jessa, or for what I suspected she was carrying. At a guess, she would regard even this discovery of her tears as an intrusion, so with a shake of the head I turned away and left her to her private sorrow.

My restlessness urged me to action. I rose silently and walked towards the horse lines. Our mounts had at least been able to rest and recover a little from the long journey, and there had been fodder for them to help restore their strength. Having eaten, they were mostly dozing, slack-hipped, their rest untroubled by thoughts of the coming day. No doubt when the dawn came there would be no time for a moment of peace with my brave Vey; it would do no harm to snatch one now, and ask his forgiveness for the terrible things I would demand of him later.

Shonn materialised from the darkness as I drew near. His presence here was no surprise, but his words were. "I was coming to fetch you," he said without preamble. "I am bidden to tell you that the wolf is calling."

I paused, and looked at him closely, but his face was inscrutable. "This is a strange place to find a wolf," I replied carefully.

"Horses always know when a wolf is near. They know danger when they smell it." And without more words he walked away towards the fire.

The horses were still dozing, despite Shonn's observation. I walked along the lines, patting the few that turned their heads towards me.

Vey was in the third rank. He was awake, and his ears were turned to catch my footsteps. I saw the gleam of the starlight in his eyes. He trusted me utterly. He dropped his head to push it against my chest, while I fondled his ears and told him that he was a prince among horses and that his father Syach would boast among the mares of the deeds his son would do that day.

"That may not happen," said a quiet voice from the darkness at about knee-level.

"Let you tell me why it should not," I answered, equally quietly, as I went on stroking my horse.

"Because I have found out that The Others have a weapon that will strike down our warriors before a single spear is thrown. I saw the shape of it yesterday, but it was covered, and I did not recognise it. And worse than the numbers it kills will be the fear it will spread. My plans depend on the Tribes acting as one. When the _cannon_ speaks, that will be at an end."

My heart seemed to have speeded up and slowed down at the same time, beating out an inexorable thump of doom. "So your counsel is that we should flee." I knew already that he would not suggest we should surrender. The blood of the Tribes was hot for battle now, and they would not even consider it. If they believed that the valley had indeed become a trap they might be willing enough to abandon it, but only on the promise that afterwards they might fight on open ground as they had always done.

"There is one alternative." His voice was so low that even in the silence I could barely hear it. "But it means that you will have to take my place in command."


	51. Chapter 51: Reed

Time was now both my enemy and my friend.

My enemy, in that I had so little of it in which to convince the bewildered chiefs at the last, pre-dawn meeting that I knew what I was talking about, and to explain the small but vital modification to my plan that could still - if I managed to work it - pull us out of the fire.

My friend, in that there was so little of it in which they could argue and ask questions and finally convince themselves that they didn't believe a word of it.

If it hadn't been for Atreh, I don't think I'd have managed it. His belief in me swung the balance, though Briai's face was black as thunder when the two of us walked into the tent together. Nevertheless I was sure that he believed in his son's intelligence. And besides, the idea as I outlined it didn't exactly provide me with a particularly bright outlook; that was quite possibly what finally sold it to him.

=/\=

Dawn found everyone in their appointed place.

It was going to be a beautiful day. The air was fresh, clean and sharp, the sky high and clear and the palest, washed-out blue. In the East, a few wisps of cloud borrowed gold from the unseen sun.

Every morning now brought a layer of mist rising from the river, coiling and wreathing across the land; this morning it was a little over chest-high, but in places it hung thickly. Any tribesman who cared to look up at the clifftop could see a man on a grey and white horse, his dark hair blowing in the dawn wind that was just getting up. Beside him the flag-bearers stood ready.

The army had marshalled exactly as I had ordered, spread out in a fan across the mouth of the valley. There was nothing to do but wait. I was sure it would not be long.

It came with a brassy bellow of trumpets out from behind the mist, shocking the silent world. The sun was just about to break the horizon. The breeze was strengthening, starting to break up the mist, and the ranks of mounted warriors at the front of our army swung into the saddle.

Rakhor was one of their leaders. He looked down at me and nodded ever so slightly. Then he heeled his horse to the front and the whole lot of them rode out at the gallop. In the mist it was hard to see, unless you were looking hard, that every other horse was led by a lead rein, and that the shape in the saddle was not a warrior but a stuffed sack.

The noise of hooves headed for the army that was still somewhere out there, but there was no sound of engagement. Instead, moments later, there was shouting and confusion, and then they peeled off and galloped wildly away, and within moments were lost out on the plain.

They had gone.

Would they come back again, now they'd seen what they were really up against?

The trumpets bellowed again, harsh and mocking. There was the huge sound of some ten thousand heavily armed men getting to their feet in one movement.

The first step forward was so precisely made that I swear the ground as well as the air shuddered. I was ready for it and it still shook me. At a guess, to the tribesmen it was practically supernatural. They'd heard the enemy the previous day when they moved up, of course, but that had been done with deliberate quietness, whereas this was orchestrated to produce the maximum sound effect.

I knew what was coming next. Hell, I'd _arranged_ what was coming next. But as those massive slow footsteps began advancing, and the men around me started backing up, looking around them nervously, I was no longer sure they were retreating because they were following orders or whether they'd lost their nerve. If the latter, I couldn't bloody blame them. We'd lost our cavalry shield, and these men were absolutely unused to fighting on foot. They already knew we were facing huge numbers, almost the equal of our own, but the valley walls magnified the noise until it sounded like all the hosts of Midian were marching towards us through the mist.

Our own big battle horns brayed, a sudden urgent note. The backward movement became quicker, a little less orderly. The big horse beside me began laying its ears back and sidling, and the rider soothed it with a word. But it didn't like being asked to walk backwards, and the fear it could sense all around it was contagious.

As the retreat continued, and started to become ragged, the horse became more and more fractious. Finally the rider had to release the rein and ride it in a tight circle in the attempt to calm it down. Around me, of course. His eyes searched me ferociously.

There was a lot I wanted to say, but this wasn't the time to say it. Maybe if both of us got through this there might be, sooner or later, but right now all I could do was look back at him, doing my best to convey how much I respected him and was glad to have been one of his tribe, and was sorry for everything...

In the meantime I just kept walking slowly backwards, feeling for my footing, my guts liquefying at the way that noise of marching feet was getting louder and louder. I knew that a lot of it was echo from the valley walls, but that didn't stop the effect, and by now it was clear that the enemy had deployed according to orders. The width of their ranks had doubled, the depth halved. We were in the mouth of the trap and they had no intention of allowing any of us to slip out as the cavalry had done. They were going to bottle us in, drive us back and wait for the promised panic to start.

But there was another sound beneath the terrible _blam-blam-blam_ of thousands of feet hitting the ground with military precision. A low rumbling, slowly growing louder, and as the welcoming arms of the valley finally started to rise on either side of us, the move I'd been waiting for happened.

From the point of view of the military enthusiast I've been all my life, I have to admit it was superbly done, though at the time I wasn't quite in the mood to admire it as it deserved. The anonymous black ranks just split down the middle, and the thing that had been hidden beneath its covers in the middle of that square of waggons last night was pushed forward by its gun teams – logs protruded from either side of its long carriage, so that enough could get purchase on it to shift its weight. Normally it would probably be pulled by teams of horses, but this army had only enough for its scouts; the idea was that they were here to take ours for the homeward trip.

I suspected that in this world artillery was probably a relatively recent development. However isolated from 'civilisation' the People might be, I couldn't believe they wouldn't have heard of cannons if they'd been in common use, and they definitely hadn't. Nevertheless, however primitive this bastard thing was from my point of view, it was big enough to suggest that The Others had been developingand refining the design for years. It would definitely do what it was intended to do. And it was no untested prototype; it had been test-fired quite recently. That had been what I'd smelled last night: gunpowder. Probably from the wood of the gun-carriage, or from the munitions stores they'd have to carry along with it.

The cannon was pushed into place, and the ranks halted, waiting. They knew what was coming, and they had no desire to be on the receiving end.

I didn't know what the ammunition would consist of. With just one cannon, it was unlikely that it would be solid shot. However spectacular the detonation would be, a ball wouldn't cause maximum damage. That was more likely to be achieved using chain-shot, grape-shot or simple shrapnel canisters. Propelled from that cannon at potentially hundreds of kilometres an hour, a slew of shrapnel would tear our first, second, third and possibly fourth ranks into a bloody mess of body parts.

As I was currently in the very first rank, and practically opposite the thing, this wasn't a particularly appealing prospect.

I looked up at Briai. "Now," I said.

Our eyes seemed to hold for a very long time. Atreh had told me ( _how_ long ago had it been? Was it years, or only months?) that given time, his father would see through my lies about being a sorcerer. I thought he was seeing through them now. Under the big bearskin hood, there was trust, and respect, and the beginnings of apology.

I hoped I deserved any of them.

Next minute he was riding forward. My hands were tied together and he was holding the other end of the rope around my neck, so I didn't have much choice about going with him.

A few stones from the quicker-witted warriors behind me hastened my going. Luckily there were no big ones, and none of them hit me on the head, though one or two struck my bare back and didn't do the weals on it a lot of good.

I honestly don't think any of them recognised me. My hair had been hurriedly hacked off, and I was wearing a set of clothes that were too big for me. I'd taken care to keep my head bowed as I was led through the ranks, and the mud and blood on my face hid the fact that I had no _qeh._

Briai halted a perhaps twenty metres short of the cannon mouth, and stared around at the silent, watching ranks with magnificent scorn. "Take this traitor, and do what you will with him!" he roared. "He thinks we should _surrender_ to you!He does not deserve to fight among free men!"

"Please!" I shouted, raising my bound hands pleadingly. "Surely we can talk! Show us you are willing to be merciful!"

Presumably there were officers in there somewhere. After a moment, one of the anonymous forms stepped forward, and beckoned silently.

I flashed a triumphant grin up at Briai. He moved to backhand me, and I dodged out of the way.

Careful to infuse a swagger into my stride, I turned and walked towards the mouth of the cannon. The loaders were working around it, measuring out the charge. I could see the canisters laid ready.

The officer glanced at one of the working men, who unobtrusively picked up a coil of rope and threw the end of it around the barrel. Tying me across the mouth of it would create a blockage, quite possibly causing the cannon itself to explode. Tying me to it, however, my flesh pinned against metal that would become superheatedby every detonation inside it, would be quite a piquant demonstration of how merciful they were willing to be.

The robe had been torn off my back to expose it for the blows with Atreh's belt. This meant that it hung loosely around my chest, and as I walked forward, my heart hammering, I slipped a hand into the slit in the fabric to find what was hidden ready there.

The feel of it was so familiar, so comforting. It felt like an old friend.

It was the work of about two seconds to break it open and flick the safety switch inside that connected to the power cell. Thanks to my having kept it isolated from the circuitry, this still had plenty of charge left, for all the time that had elapsed; I sent fervent, silent thanks to whoever had developed the long-life battery inside it.

Choosing my moment from the endless time that now flowed slowly around me as the officer closed with me, I wrenched my hands loose from their deceptive ropes and flung the now evilly-humming phase pistol into the cannon's waiting mouth.

Nobody panicked, though a few heads turned. The barrel had no charge in it yet, and the Tribes had no gunpowder. Whatever it was that I'd thrown in there, they'd simply fish it out while they dealt with me, and then business would be resumed.

I was the one who panicked. I knew what it did, I knew what was coming. There were barrels of gunpowder within range, there were canisters stacked on the carriage.

 _Jesus Christ, I don't want to die…_

The officer made a grab at me. He missed my arm - I made sure of that - but to my horror he managed to get hold of a handful of my tunic instead. I hadn't been expecting that, and in my head the ticking clock got louder and louder as I fought desperately to get loose, fending away the other hand that was trying to catch my wrist or even my hair. With all the armour he was wearing, I couldn't even hit him; it would have been like punching a shuttlepod. Fortunately the fabric was already torn, and just as he was about to get a grip on me the rest of it gave way, leaving him with nothing more than a long strip of hide in his fingers as I wrenched away from him at last.

I ran. I knew those few seconds were going to cost me. I wasn't going to be fast enough but I ran anyway. I'd have beaten the All-England hundred-metre sprint record into flinders if there'd been anyone around with a stopwatch, but fortunately for them there wasn't.

Behind me, the jeers and laughter rose, and in front of me the tribes – obedient but uncomprehending – legged it as they'd been ordered to, as hard as they could. One or two of them held their ground at first, too proud to run, but maybe it was the sight of me racing for dear life that gave them wiser thoughts. They turned around and legged it as well.

Only one stupid bastard didn't.

I saw him riding towards me. He didn't listen to my scream, didn't heed my frantically waving hands.

He knew he didn't have time to stop. He brought the horse in a hard circle around me, this time dropping his arm to take mine and haul me up behind him.

Both of them were between me and the cannon at the precise moment when the phase pistol detonated.


	52. Chapter 52: Atreh

He had told me what would happen, but truly, there was nothing that could have prepared me for what it was like.

Bracu's Wolf Himself could not have produced such a roar of sound as the _cannon_ vanished in a great explosion of fire and smoke, so huge and fierce that even on the cliff-top I felt the pulse of air against my face, and many of the running warriors below were flung forward on their faces.

Between my knees Haiz jerked violently, but after a moment's sidling and snorting he responded to my soothing hand and pricked his ears forward again. Vey was being held further back, out of sight. Those below had put their faith in the sorcerer, and at this distance they would see a dark-haired rider atop the familiar horse. My own hair was braided back tightly out of view, and the dark locks we had cut from Malcolm's head were pinned over them. Close up, it would fool no-one. At a distance, it would serve.

When the smoke cleared, I was shocked out of words by what I saw. The devastation spread out in a circle from the hollow torn in the ground where the _cannon_ had been. In the centre, around a few pieces of twisted metal that was all that remained of it now, there was nothing recognisable as individual bodies. Further out, there were the dead. Beyond that, there were the wounded. So many wounded, some trying to move, some lying broken and burned and screaming. It seemed that whatever else The Others might do, they screamed if the pain was great enough.

The discipline of those who remained was tremendous. Their horns bellowed commands, and slowly and – it seemed to me – in shock, those who could still go formed up into new squares. In just a few minutes, the command to advance was given, and the squares moved with the same awful unity. Their intention was still plain: they still had their enemy trapped, and there were more than enough of them remaining to deal with panicking tribesmen with no escape route.

But there were fewer of them, and those that remained were shaken, there could be no doubt of that; and most importantly of all, for the fighting still to come, the People had seen that The Others could die.

The squares strode forward, and those behind parted to avoid the vast mess where some of their comrades were calling for help. They marched forward in two columns, and passed the place where a dead horse and two dead men lay sprawled on the bloody ground. Doubtless it suited the enemy's purposes to remain separated, since they would have to avoid the river that flowed down the centre of the right hand column had to cross the ford where the watercourse bent away, and that cost them a little trouble when they learned that small sharp stakes that had been embedded between the stones. Those unfortunate enough to be lamed by these were promptly impaled on them to show where they were so that those behind could walk on unimpeded, but once again it broke their concentration and disposed of just a few more of their numbers, even though within a few paces the black ranks had re-formed as though nothing at all had happened.

I had my orders. My friend had died to purchase us this chance of victory, and my soul-sire had died in the attempt to save him. The most fitting tribute I could pay to their sacrifice was to ensure it was not in vain. Grief must wait its time.

The warriors were still falling back, though they had stopped running and re-formed into some vague semblance of order. I did not want them to re-form ranks, or to try to make a stand. I wanted them to keep moving, and above all I wanted them to look afraid.

Thanks be to the Gods, they kept their heads and remembered their instructions. I saw the glances backward, the feigned attempts to form some kind of order break up as though no-one could quite gather their wits. One or two cried out in fear, and the pace picked up a little until what had been a relatively orderly retreat more resembled the flow of a river.

The squares followed, inexorable. The trees that crowded in from the sides did not worry them. They simply reformed into more elongated squares, smoothly and almost without sound, filling the ground between the silent trees and the river.

I waited until the whole space along the trees' edge was filled. Then, I turned and nodded to the first of the flag-bearers beside me.

The signal flew out on the wind.

Down in the valley, six young trees that had been tied back with ropes were suddenly released, and whipped upright, hurling the jars that had nestled in the branches high into the air. Burning rags were stuffed into the mouth of each, and I watched as the missiles fell among the ranks, my breath held in expectation.

I was not disappointed.

The jars had been kept in hot water all night, and the contents were therefore still liquid. As each one struck and shattered, somehow the black stuff within caught fire and burst out in a great fiery spray over all within range. Where it fell, it clung and burned, and those caught in it screamed and ran, spreading panic as the flames spread to the cloth bound around the head and shoulders of each man. They were helmed, and it seemed that the helms were hard to loosen in haste, for the fire defeated the attempts of those caught in it to get them off and so they staggered like living torches, shrieking as they burned.

The tribesmen had watched 'the sorcerer' cast his spells over the jars, to be released when they shattered. There was not a warrior in the valley who must not now be watching in awe how the black stuff clung like a curse and burned without mercy, consuming its victims. Surely, they doubtless reasoned, the spells had also now been released, spreading terror of which they could take full advantage – as the sorcerer had promised.

And after the fire came the arrows, flight after flight of them from the archers we had stationed among the tree branches. Now the ranks were broken, the archers could take full advantage. The armour was strong; at the furthest range, some of the arrows struck harmlessly and bounced off; but enough punched through the metal to the body within, and more gaps were torn in the squares. Some were wrapped with burning rags, and more fires lit and spread.

More saplings sprang upright. These flung great stones, which ploughed into the enemy and broke their bodies like dolls. Men stumbled into the shallows, and found more stakes wedged there. Some fell on them, some screamed as their feet and legs were impaled.

A second flag-wave.

The men who had been hidden among the yellow bracken rose to their feet. Spears flew, followed by hastily-made wooden staves with their sharpened points hardened in the fires. Like the arrows, many did little harm, but some did, and confusion spread still further.

From the point on the left hand side where the cliff hung over the valley, great bundles of flaming hay poured down, breaking apart in a blazing blizzard as they fell. Others of the warriors who had been concealed there hurled down the huge store of rocks we had amassed there, some so heavy it took two men to lift them. Fire and stone fell from above, and men could not look up to watch for the one without risking being blinded by the other. Great slaughter was done there.

The warriors who had staged that 'retreat' stopped and turned at the far end of the valley, forming ranks with shields kissing and swords protruding through the gaps. In front of them a bank of earth hid the ditch that lay behind it, the bottom lined with pointed stakes; narrow walkways allowed a man to cross, but there would be no access for unbroken ranks. Any man who struggled up the bank would find himself pressed by those coming behind him, and in front of him the ditch beckoned, with the warriors beyond it.

In front of the bank, hidden beneath lattices of thin branches across which they had walked lightly and with care, were pits footed with sharp sticks. When these had been inserted into the ground, the 'sorcerer' had bidden those doing the work to piss on the points. I could picture his face now as he said it, hard and cold. I did not know what this would achieve, but I knew it would work some great evil on any who fell in and was pierced by one.

Finally, as the whole mass of The Others crammed into the enclosed space, came the sound for which my heart prayed: Rakhor's war-horns and the thunder of the hooves as our cavalry came back to seal the mouth of the valley behind them. As they came they had picked up hidden stores of yet more stakes, these the longest of all and bound with straps so that they could be borne between two horses; and holding them braced, each pair of warriors drove his mount into the press of the enemy, the weight of their onset spearing man and armour and all. Others carried logs, borne widthways between four horses, which could be driven into small groups of The Others and break bones with their smashing weight. Still others flung stones linked with hide cords, to entangle legs and arms and impede their movement.

The foremost ranks of The Others reached the pits. I watched the lattice give way, and armoured men fall onto what waited for them at the bottom.

Their impetus was broken. It was with a struggle that those behind mounted across their bodies and made for the mound and the ditch behind it, and the ranks of shields and swords that waited for them there; and there they were held, while our archers fired upon them and hidden warriors broke cover and crashed down upon them from all sides.

The squares were breaking or broken. The terror our sorcerer had promised had done its work.

The warriors among the trees, their missiles gone, began streaming back towards the valley mouth, where their own horses had been brought back for them, now shorn of their sack-riders. As each man swung on to a ready back, he drew his sword and began hacking at the bodies now hampering the stakes, freeing these for more slaughter – in which he joined, so that the valley rang with the songs of the Tribes and the screams of the wounded and the dying.

The 'sorcerer' had served his purpose. With the last of the flags snapping in the wind of my going, I spun Haiz on his hocks and rode for where Vey was being held; and as soon as I was astride my own horse I heeled him into a steady canter, holding him back from the headlong gallop we both so much desired in our haste to be with our own. The path down from the valley heights was clear enough but stony, and the early morning dew left it slippery – we would help nothing and no-one with a pair of broken necks. My flag-bearers rode after us, and riderless Haiz ran alongside, his reins knotted up so that they would not trip him, and his ears forward as though in eager anticipation of finding his master.

Reaching level ground, I drew my own sword and sang the song that cursed the enemies of the People to the lowest of the Hells as I rode into the battle at full pelt.

It was not easy. Even as beset as they were, The Others held much of their discipline. Again and as their warriors fell and their ranks thinned, they re-formed their cursed squares and stabbed out with their swords between the shields that formed an almost impenetrable barrier around them.

Almost, but not quite. Now we had our cavalry, now almost all of our warriors were mounted and the blood of man and horse ran hot. As Malcolm had instructed, we too had our discipline. Ten or so warriors would draw off a little way, form into a spear-head with a lance-pair at the forefront, and charge at each square. They could see it coming, but there was little they could do to resist; whenever possible, more than one spear-head attacked simultaneously, so that they could not pack their defences at the point of impact. The Others had few archers to begin with, and those they had were mostly dead by now – our own had specific orders to target them first.

The cost was terrible, both in men and horses, but we broke them. First one or two, then tens and scores and finally fifties began trying to organise some kind of orderly retreat. There were not ten fifties, in my estimate; there was not that number left fighting by then; some had surrendered, but _no mercy_ had been the command. When the first few had tried it, they had been spared, in order that others should see it and take hope from it that they might be also. As soon as all those who would allow themselves to be taken prisoner had been disarmed, the killing began.

 _No, it is not honourable_ , the voice said in my memory. _War is not about honour. It is about winning._

Oriche had protested. Malcolm had turned on him, his eyes freezing. _If you wish your enemy to fear you, you will do what is necessary. If you wish them to think you weak, you will do what is honourable._

It was not honourable. It sickened me. But these men would carry back no tale of the People's weakness to their stone tents.

The remnants of The Others fought their way somehow back to the valley-mouth.

They had no horses. They watched our mounted warriors stream away towards their supply waggons and the few left to defend them, and the smoke rise in the morning air.

They formed a square and defied us to come at them. We simply sat and watched them, knowing what we knew.

There were wounded among them. Many, many miles lay between them and their stone tents. All that way they would march with no food and little water, and every step of it we would harry them like wolves around a herd of exhausted, starving sishev. It would take time, but all those miles would give us time enough.

Maybe presently, when no word came to the stone tents and no victorious army returned with its horses and its slaves, one might be sent to find out what had happened to them. If he was fortunate (the Plains are wide!), it might be that he happened upon an unburied body or a piece of discarded metal, and from it discover the dreadful trail that led back to the valley. There, in front of it, the dead would be heaped and left unhonoured to the eye of the sun, until the birds and the beasts had stripped their carcasses and the winter rains rotted what was left, and finally the Plains winds blew the dust of them away to nowhere.

Not one would live to take back word of the People's weakness.


	53. Chapter 53: Jessa

I had not known there were so many ways in which a man could be wounded and still live.

In my heart I cursed all wielders of weapons save one, but all the time my hands were busy, and my voice seemed to operate quite without my direction, issuing advice and directing those helping me: lay that one aside, bring this one here, yes, lay him _so_ and hold him down– while my fingers were nimble with needle and thread and swab and a tiny pinch of my precious medicines or a smear of salve, and I was hardly done before the next body was before me with the next rent torn in it, and once again needle and thread and swab and medicine and salve came into action. As soon as I was done with a patient he was lifted away for others to bandage and dispose of; my skills were too valuable, my time too precious, for them to be wasted on such mundane tasks as winding bandages – which all too soon ran out, so that presently my helpers spent as much time tearing up discarded clothing to make more as they did in actually applying them.

Doubtless many of the bodies were of men I knew, men with whom I had talked and laughed in the days before the world turned red. In this new, red world there was no time for recognition. There was certainly no time for talk or laughter, and after a time there were no directions either, just pointing and gesturing and _needle, thread, swab, salve_ for despite my frugality I had run out of medicine and the salve I was using now was the stuff Shonn kept for treating cuts on horses' legs.

Now and again one turned my head aside and held a cup of hot ale to my lips. I did no more than sip at it, for I had to keep my wits about me, but the warmth of it in my cold stomach gave me much-needed heart. The after-taste told me that there was sugar and spice in it, renewing my strength, and just for a moment I seemed to feel warm lips pressing against my hair.

 _Needle, thread, swab, salve._ Another man with a broken leg. I called one of my helpers, and was surprised to hear naught but a croak issuing from my mouth. It was the Gods' mercy that anyone heard it, for besides the groans and cries of the wounded there was the background roar of the battle still going on – the battle still to be lost or won, and to which I could pay no heed.

(Maybe _he_ was dead. Mother of Mares…)

The bone of the lower leg had punctured flesh and skin, the shattered ends of it white in the ruin. If he lived through the shock of it being cut off and the blood loss that would follow until the great veins within could be cauterised, the chances were that infection would set in and he would die later, in agony.

There was, for that moment, no priest or priestess near to send him across the Bridge. Still, a scalpel can be merciful, and surely the gods would understand the need… The great vein beneath his ear opened, and his suffering was done.

Another body. _Needle, thread, swab, salve._ Mother of Mares, so many bodies. This one died under my hands. So did the next. Truly the Bridge would be crowded this day.

I took time to rinse my chilled, numb fingers in a bowl of warm water to help them work again. The water was red. My gown was red. The table on which I worked was red, the cloths with which it was hastily wiped were red. The ground under my feet was red. My ears buzzed and rang with the noises from those I treated, my hands brutal and deft.

I ran out of salve. _Needle, thread, swab._

The swabs were no longer scraps of clean linen. Now they were just rags torn from the clothing of the dead, their only function to clear away the bleeding so that I could see where to sew.

 _Needle, thread, rag._

I ran out of thread. They brought me hairs pulled from the tails of dead horses.

The world went away from me for a moment. I came back to myself choking on hot ale. They gave me a mouthful of half-cooked meat and I forced it down because I needed the nourishment.

 _Needle, horsehair, rag._

A sword-thrust in the shoulder.

 _Needle, horsehair, rag._

A broken arm. With a helper's aid, I re-set it. Some anonymous other could splint and strap it.

An arrow in the lung. It had gone deep, and after I had cut it out he would bleed internally. Probably the lung would collapse, but I had known men live with one lung. That was if infection did not set in, which it most likely would. With the callousness of practice I cut out the arrowhead, opening the flesh to get the barb out cleanly.

 _Needle, horsehair, rag._

Mother of Mares, why had they brought me this man? They had sliced away the front of his tunic, and I saw at a glance that he was dead already, his body a mass of cuts and blood. I felt nothing but a moment's dull amazement that his chest still rose and fell. There were others waiting whom my skills might still save.

The motion to those waiting to take this one away and put another in his place was so much a part of me now that I did not even feel my hand lift.

It never completed the gesture. My eyes, sweeping for the next casualty, passed across tribe marks in a naked shoulder from which the tunic hung torn.

/\\_/\

A shock ran through me as though Bracu's Spear had fallen from a cloudless sky and impaled me. I had not known him.

His head had lolled away from me as they set him down, hiding his face. His hair was hacked short and matted with blood. Mercifully, he was unconscious – an unconsciousness that would soon slide into death.

There were others waiting whom my skills might still save.

 _Needle, horsehair, rag. Needle, horsehair, rag. Needle, horsehair, rag. Needle, horsehair, rag. Needle, horsehair, rag. Needle, horsehair, rag._

I could do no other.

 _Needle, horsehair, rag. Needle, horsehair, rag._

There was no salve. There were no medicines.

 _Needle, horsehair, rag._

There were others waiting whom my skills might still save.

My hand moved. Only the worst wounds had been stitched. The smallest scratch on his body could let in dirt and bring infection, and I had sewed his flesh shut with unwashed horsehair, a dirty bone needle and filthy hands. There was not even any clean water with which to wash him afterwards. We had set water-skins by in the beginning, but they had all been emptied long ago, and no-one was at hand to run for any refill from the waterfall.

There were others waiting whom my skills might still save. Many others.

As they carried him away I did not watch. The next body screamed as they set it down. The left side had taken an oblique slash, but I thought most of the vital organs should be undamaged.

 _Needle, horsehair, rag._


	54. Chapter 54: Atreh

The Others marched.

They could do no other. There was nothing for them here but death.

After a brief consultation (held on horseback, and hardly fit to be called a council), it was decided that Plahik and Sahbay should command the force tasked with hunting them down. It was Sahbay's lands through which they would pass on the way south from here, and he best knew the terrain. He had been wounded in the battle, but he was fit to ride, and I think naught could have kept him from seeing the thing to its end. His parting promise was that the head of the last enemy to die should be set on a stake gazing towards the land he had not lived to reach.

It was a jest, but an evil one. As I turned my mount and began the weary ride back towards the valley, my heart was sick in me.

Truly, Malcolm had been wise. It had been like nothing we had ever known. And the dead, so many dead.

We knew now what The Others looked like. They were not so much unlike us, maybe a little broader-built, with high-bridged noses, but not monsters. They bled like us. They died like us.

Of the seventeen chiefs that had led their clans into battle, only six still lived, and one of those lay with his foot on the Bridge. I knew already that ours had crossed it. On the way out, in pursuit of the fleeing Others, I had passed the place where what remained of his body lay, shattered by the blast. His horse had died with him, both of them giving their lives in vain in the attempt to save Malcolm.

Haiz had found them before me. He was already snuffling at his master's body, though his ears were flat and his eyes rolled nervously; almost all horses hate the smell of blood.

I sighed now, remembering. Malcolm had gained us the victory and lost his life in the doing of it, as he had all but predicted. Still, there was one who would not wish him left there on the field among the nameless dead. It was for her sake that I had ordered two of the injured men who rode with me to pick up his body and take it to the Healer. I wished that things had been so different that I could honour it as it was lifted up, but those we pursued were still dangerous, and I could not afford the time just then. There would be time later to grieve.

Over and over again, that day, I pushed grief off till a fitter time. I was not sure, in my heart of hearts, that I still had the strength to bear it.

We had the victory, but to me at least there was no sense of it; it felt, instead, that we had been ravished of something I had never fully realised we possessed. Innocence, perhaps. Small wonder, if he had truly known what was to come, that Malcolm had been desperate enough to be named sorcerer in order to shape us into a force that could withstand it. If they had come upon us unprepared, The Others would have crushed us underfoot like eggshells.

As I rode back now through the killing grounds beside the river, I was conscious of a dull incredulity that the sun was already well past its zenith. Time had lost its meaning while we had been fighting. Soon the shadows of evening would swallow the valley, and soon after that night would come.

Those who could still rise and go were moving among the fallen. The fighting had been such that few tribesmen could be salvaged. Now and again I saw one helped up and carried away, but most were despatched across the Bridge; certainly none among The Others who still breathed were left living. Such was the fear and hatred in which these enemies were held that their corpses were already being mutilated. Their eyes were being put out, so that their blinded spirits would never find their way to the Eternal Grazing Lands or behold the face of the God there.

I saw Thais among the slain, and thought it not an end he would have scorned, having seen many years. I noted where his body lay, and presently, when I had time to take order, I would point out its whereabouts to his own people, who would doubtless wish to take him up and do him honour according to their own customs.

Briai we would take back with us. It was the custom to bury chiefs in the Long Valley, but it was in my heart that he would wish his ashes to fall around the village he had died to protect. The disposal of Malcolm's body should be as Jessa directed; maybe during their time together he had spoken of the death rites of his people. As for our other dead, I did not yet know how many we had lost. When I was able to make the tally and assess the difficulties of our journey home, then I would make the decision on where they would go to the pyre. As I gazed around at the number of tribesmen who would never return to their own villages, it came to me that there would be far fewer trees in this valley after the burning was done….

More important than the disposal of the dead, however, was the care of the living. Those who had conquered deserved to rest and eat. Even those charged with the pursuit of the remnant of The Others' army would take time before they set out; having horses, they could afford to. There was nowhere for the hunted refugees to go that they could not follow, day or night.

I had sat high above the battle while the first of it raged, and even during the fighting I had sustained no serious hurts. For all my weariness, I held myself to be among the better off. Falling rather than dismounting from Vey's back before the place where our stores had been set, I joined those who had already begun handing out bread and water. Come the morrow and there would perhaps be time and strength for rejoicing, but now there was neither, simply the void of utter exhaustion. The wounded and the whole (few enough of those) sat beside their horses, most of whose heads hung low, and simply ate and drank what they were given, staring blankly at nothing. It seemed that for all that they had not broken their fast that day, not many were hungry. After a few mouthfuls, they hauled themselves to their feet, spread their horses' saddlecloths into blankets and tied them into place against the night's chill, and simply dropped and slept where they lay. In a while, others moved among the horses with buckets of water and grain, so that the beasts also would not sleep hungry or thirsty. After that, there was only a heavy silence. Triumph was ours, but Ishir's Mane! The taste of it in our mouths was bitter.

I saved a crust of bread smeared with a little honey, and salvaged a half-emptied cup of water from the hand of a warrior too exhausted to finish it before he slept. There was one I was sure would not be sleeping yet, and likely if order was not taken the rising sun would find her still working.

The treatment area had been set up where a stand of tall trees with white trunks was easily seen from afar. Almost I did not need the trees to guide me, because even in the distance I could hear the drone of sound that was the suffering of the wounded, with no better comfort than their cloaks to protect them from the cold of the ground and the chill of the coming night. More food was being distributed to those who wanted it and those whose condition permitted them to eat, but most were allowed half a cup each of warmed ale – the only thing we had that would draw even the thinnest of veils between them and the pain of their injuries. Those with stomach wounds could only take enough to wet their mouths.

In my weakness and tiredness I wanted nothing more than to turn away from the faces that recognised me and called out to me, but that was not what they needed. So I went along the rows in which they had been laid out, and spoke to any who desired it, praising their courage and telling them that without them the day would have ended very differently; which the God knows was no more than the truth.

By the time I reached the place where lanterns were beginning to shine out in the gathering dusk, I had all but forgotten the cup of water, and the bread and honey.

She was still working, though there were only a few left now needing her skills, and the three women from the village were tending to the less badly hurt (as I made no doubt they had done all day). I watched and waited while she finished – for sure there would be no staying her before the thing was done – and then, as the last was lifted gently from the table and carried away, I was glad I had set down the food and water I had brought, because although she did not speak she suddenly folded up, quietly and gently as though now there was no reason to go on standing she had quite forgotten how to.

I was just close enough to catch her. She was as light as a leaf in my arms.

I carried her across to the waterfall and set her down on a gravelly place among the stones that ringed the pool at the bottom. I took off her gown and washed her hands in the pool, being careful with her slender fingers that were caked with stuff the clean water washed away like forgiveness. I rinsed her braids and unfastened them and rinsed her hair again, watching the darkness float away from it, and even the cold of the water-splashes on her scalp did not rouse her. Then I squeezed out the worst of it and carried her away to a sheltered place where the cold air would not strike too hard (she being now only in her linen shift), and then finally I was able to get her to eat the bread and drink the water. I think she was eating and drinking in her sleep, for her eyes never opened, but somehow she got it all down. Then, and not before, I pulled her down onto the greensward, lay down behind her and spread my cloak over both of us.

The day was finally over.


	55. Chapter 55: Jessa

To my everlasting shame, I slept until the next evening.

I woke so closely bundled up in blankets that I could scarcely move hand or foot. Not that moving either was a pleasure, when I finally achieved it; every joint from my elbows down seemed to have seized up, and my ankles were swollen. More: my back seemed to have decided that the curve in which I lay was the position in which it wished to remain for eternity, and my first attempt to stretch resulted in every muscle in it protesting vehemently – if not violently – at the change.

I did not recognise where I was, at first. Then, as I slowly and painfully sat up, forcing my stiff muscles to move whether they would or no, I realised that I had been placed in a little sheltered area where the rocks beside the waterfall formed a shallow natural hollow. It would not have kept out rain, but the Gods had been merciful; it had not rained, and the sky above was roofed with high clouds. These would keep off any frost that threatened, but did not seem to hold any threat on their own account. For the season it was mild, even if the first slip of a blanket set me shivering and I was quick to don the clothes that had been put by for me. They were warrior's clothes but doubtless the wearer had no need of them any longer, and my own were ruined with blood. I was too cold, just then, to care for the scandal of a maid wearing man's clothing, and I wrapped my blankets back around me afterwards for whatever warmth might still linger in them.

No-one was near me.

The low thunder of the falls seemed to have filled my sleep, and now the small pattering of the little falling rills around it lent an urgency to the problem that had woken me. A kindly rock lent me modesty while I solved it, and then, freed from that particular concern, I was better able to take stock of my surroundings.

Horses were picketed in front of me, their close-packed bodies and warm breath adding to the small comfort of my shelter. Unfortunately it was all too clear that they too had suffered the previous day. Few were without injury, but they endured their pain with the patience of creatures who have very little capacity for complaint, and even less inclination.

Arach was among them. Such was our need for remounts, every horse we owned had been put at the disposal of the warriors during the battle, and I was relieved beyond measure that she seemed to have escaped lightly. There was a small cut on her soft nose and a slash on her right hindquarter, but it was shallow and seemed clean enough. In kinder circumstances I might have hoped Shonn might have tended it so that it would leave only a little scar, but Shonn – even if he still lived – would doubtless have far greater troubles to occupy his mind.

– _If he still lived!_ Mother of Mares, how could I have forgotten? With a gasp I spun around, dread welling up where there had been a dazed blankness. That I could, for even a moment, have forgotten my beloved – have slept the day away, caring only for my own weariness, when I had no news of him!

My mind recreated the wounds I had stitched and those I had perforce to leave. The clumsiness of my filthy hands, the jagged movements of the filthy needle, with the smaller cuts left untended like mouths open on silent reproaches. Surely he had not lived.

I dropped my blankets. They would only slow me down.

I now discovered the extent to which my body had stiffened after my abuse of it the previous day. With the first long step I almost pitched headlong, but I gritted my teeth and forced one foot in front of another. I had already given in to my weakness far more than it deserved.

It was clear that the sorry business of clearing up was well under way. No doubt many had slept long and deeply, but there was work to be done, and any who had the strength to assist had begun the task. In a clear space the first of the pyres was being prepared; each would have somewhat less wood than usual, but if any trees at all were to be left afterwards, then we must be sparing with those that remained.

The bodies had been separated. Those of The Others were being piled on horses, each of these being led away down the valley to whatever fate the remaining chiefs had ordained for them. Those of the People's warriors were being laid reverently in rows – Ai! So many rows, so many bodies! Truly, truly, we had not known how it would be….

I wished more than anything to walk away, to turn my head from this terrible waste of life: all those strong young men who would return no more to their own villages and the women who waited for them there. I saw Sorav lying there, and Kye, and Cavi whose twisted leg would trouble him no longer; but though I walked, and wept, and looked (brushing the tears over and over again from my eyes so that they would not blind me), I did not see the face I searched for.

Surely he had not lived! He could not have lived, not with those wounds on him.

He was not with the dead – though surely there must be others, strewn along the valley floor further down; as many as there were, this could not be all the tally. But he had been unconscious when they laid him down, and would have wakened (if he ever did wake) to agony. His part in the fighting was over. They would have laid him with the rest of the wounded, to cross the Bridge if and when the God called to him.

Maybe, against all my belief, the God had hesitated. Maybe his own gods had intervened, staying his soul-journey until I could take my farewells of him.

I turned my steps to the place by the white trees (being stripped now of some of their branches, to feed the pyres) where the wounded were being tended by the weary. Most of the noise I vaguely remembered from the previous day had subsided. At a guess, some of the worst hurt had died of their injuries and left their suffering behind; some had lapsed into that strange state where the spirit walks elsewhere for a while before returning; some were sleeping; some were awake but resting as best they could, trying to bear their pain with the best stoicism they could muster; some were talking quietly among themselves, and others were simply staring at the evening sky as though in wonder at the fact that they were still alive to see its blueness through the rents in the cloud.

A few supplies had come in during the morning. A man I did not know moved among the rows of men, offering measured sips of stuff he poured from a flask. The green cord plaited into his hair told that he was a herb-master, and doubtless he brought potions and salve – a realisation that brought more tears pricking to my eyes. A boy followed him, with a water-skin and a cup, so that none should go thirsty, though his master warned him sharply against giving too much to those with belly wounds.

There were more wounded than dead, and many of these here were unknown to me. It seemed that at least some of the other Healers had overcome their scruples in the matter of my fitness to treat their people – doubtless the sheer volume of demand had helped in that decision. As I realised this, a dreary little smile fought its way on to my face. Surely acceptance had never been more dearly bought.

I was still walking and peering when a touch on my shoulder made me jump.

It was Bihiv; praise to the Great Mother, a Bihiv without a mark on him. But ai! he was sorely wounded all the same. I could only liken it to the quenching of a flame, the flame of youth that had lit him from within for as long as I could remember. He looked weary, and sad, and old, and I was glad to embrace him so that I could hide my face against his shoulder; it would give me the time I needed to compose my face so that the shock and sorrow would not stand naked on it.

"He was right," he said, after long moments when I felt the quake of barely-held tears pass through his body. "We did not know. By the Black Gates, we did not know."

"But we lived. And had the victory." I had command of my face by then, and lifted it to look into his.

"Briai is dead, Jessa." There was hardly any strength in his voice, and the tears spilled over. I wiped them away with my thumbs, gently. He was so very young, despite his height and the beginnings of a beard. "How shall we go on without him?"

"We shall go on as we have always done. At least we may go on as we always have, a Free People and not a race of slaves. He would have reckoned his life a fair trade for that." It was the truth, even though it did little to ease the pain of loss. Even though I still bore Briai somewhat of a grudge for his foolishness in ever believing that Malcolm could possibly be a sorcerer, I had no doubt that he had been a great chief and a great man. The village, and indeed the People, would be the poorer for his passing.

At least we had the comfort of knowing that Briai had left behind a strong hand to guide the clan. For sure the elders would have to approve his election, but surely there could be little doubt that Atreh – as young as he was – would follow in his soul-sire's footsteps in the guardianship of the village.

That thought stirred memory. "Atreh – you have seen him?" I asked anxiously. I was unsure of why I believed that Atreh had shared my blankets the previous night (I certainly did not remember lying down), but I wanted to be sure he had taken no injuries in the battle. Even a small cut, left untreated, can take the rot; and now there was salve available, surely he more than any should be taken care of.

(I stifled as best I could my soul's wail of grief that there should be salve _now_ , when my greatest need of it was gone; I was still a Healer, and my duty was to the living.)

My brother's suddenly somewhat cautious look puzzled me. "I saw him earlier. He told me to see that you ate, and to see that you did not over-tire yourself tending the wounded. And to tell you that he would see you presently."

I had not found the one for whom I sought. My heart keened his name with every beat, but he was gone. Maybe they had taken him to the pyres already, while I slept. The odour on the wind was of more than burning wood, and it was not only the fumes that made my eyes sting.

Nevertheless, I must honour his death by saving as many as I could of those for whom he had died. And so I ate food that tasted of nothing and drank watered ale that tasted of nothing, and when I had eaten and drunk enough to satisfy Bihiv I went back to the wounded.


	56. Chapter 56: Jessa

The worst of the injuries had been dealt with. Now, in the too-quiet aftermath, there was time for more considered judgement.

The honest truth was that we had little means of treating infection when it set in. As long as a wound healed cleanly, we continued to care for the victim. If it did not, we faced the choice in each case between hoping for the best, or acting as though there was no hope.

If the damage was to a limb, and the poison had not spread, we could amputate. That might work, or it might not, but it brought dreadful suffering that we had no means of alleviating; and even if the patient survived, we knew that some of them would rather die than live so maimed, a burden to their tribes and families.

If it was to the torso, we had no option. If the body's own defences could not fight off the infection, the man was doomed. The only mercy we could offer him was to ensure that his death would come quickly, rather than as the merciful end to a lingering agony.

Once that decision was made, matters were out of our hands. It was the duty of the priest-kind to despatch the dying across the Bridge, and the holy ones had already begun their sad task. Normally this is done with herbs, and is peaceful and seemly. Today, however, there were not sufficient herbs. Sharp knives were used instead. No-one had dreamed of the numbers that would be lost.

Truly, we had not known….

I straightened up from examining a young man whose shoulder and arm had been pulverised, probably trampled by at least one horse. He was bleeding internally, his face grey with shock, his eyes sunken back in his head and his lips blue. His pulse was fast and erratic. I did not think we would save him, but there was still a chance he might survive, and with a sigh I moved on to the next patient. This one had taken a deep sword-thrust in the shoulder and lost a great deal of blood, and already he was showing signs of a fever that could well prove fatal, but the flesh in his arm below the bandaging was still warm and healthy. We had already lost too many for me to lightly condemn any man who I thought stood even the shadow of a chance of surviving. And he was very young – hardly more than a boy. The bones under my hands were too thin for those of a man.

Gently I stroked his hair, wet with sweat. My share of the supplies the herb-master had brought for the Healers had soon been exhausted, and I had nothing to help him fight the fever, but he was young and strong.

I sighed.

Instead of making the gesture that would send him across the Bridge, placing my thumb on the Soul Place in the centre of his chest I whispered a prayer to the God that He might spare a warrior who had so much life still left to live. The Mother of Mares yet held back from me the agony that I could feel waiting for me; it seemed to me that I moved and breathed and lived in a kind of shell, like that of a snail, and that as long as I could go on without speaking _his_ name it would still endure. But how much life _he_ had still had to live; and it had been reft from _him_ , while I worked to save those who had called _him_ sorcerer and worse…

Throughout my inspection I had been aware that one of the priest-kind was standing opposite me, awaiting the verdict. Despite my knowing in my head that their work was merciful, still a part of my heart loathed them, since this work of theirs was necessarily the result of failure on my part, often to achieve the impossible.

More than one had shadowed me since I began. I did my task and they did theirs, all of us silent. It was not their place to advise me or to argue my decisions, only to enforce them.

Even now, I do not know why I looked up. It mattered nothing to me who it was; I have little truck with the priest-kind, or they with me for the most part. For a moment I did not recognise her. By that time it had grown so dark that torches had been brought, and beneath the shadow of her hood her face was gaunt and strange.

It was Roish.

I looked down at the boy beneath my hands.

The need of the People had been so great that anyone who had been able to wield a sword had been called to serve. Even some of the boys hardly into the first year of their training had ridden with us.

Her son, Efat, whom Briai had beaten for bragging what he would do to …. to _him_ , should _he_ prove the spy and scoundrel that some had thought _him._

If I had spoken the word, Roish would have used the knife. That was her duty. I had not known her; I had not known her son.

She stepped forward. "A gift, for the life of my son," she said hoarsely. "Go search among the wounded beyond the waterfall."

May the Mother pardon me! I dropped my scalpel where it fell, and my bundle of rag-bandages and all else.

There were those who did not move out of my way fast enough, and I can only suppose that they thought they had been struck by Ishir at the gallop. I did not stay to ask what she meant, or why I should have been bidden search beyond the waterfall, which was where Rakhor's healers had been working (they having been among the most vehement that my services were suspect). The soreness and weariness of my limbs was forgotten. 'The wounded' had been her words, not 'the dead', and whatever grudge she bore me I could not believe she would lie in such a case.

 _Let him be only wounded, Great Mother let him be still among the living…_

Rakhor's Healers were still at their work, as I had been. Here too there were rows of the wounded, but there were gaps that showed where some had already been deemed beyond saving. The poverty of our resources meant that many would die who in better circumstances would have lived; all here faced a journey home that for many was far longer than ours would be, and the difficulties of transport was one of the factors that weighed heavily, though it was one that would not have to be faced for some while yet. Even those still whole would need to rest before such an undertaking.

Here, as at my place beside the white trees, torches had been set to aid the Healers in their assessment of the wounded. Without even asking permission I snatched one that seemed to have been set up for small reason save for lighting the place where food had been set (alas! With so many dead horses around us, we were not short of meat), and ignoring the cries of indignation that arose from those left eating in the dark, I set out along the lines of the injured, peering frantically in equal dread and hope at each body that did not show fair hair in the wavering torchlight.

I all but missed him.

Mother of Mares! how close I came to not even knowing he was there. It was at the very furthest end of a row, where clearly many had died during the course of the day. Great rents here rather than spaces told the numbers that had crossed the Bridge despite all the healers could do, and their bodies had been carried away lest they breed infection to spread to those left still fighting for life.

I thought it was the end of the row, not a gap. I was turning away to begin searching the next row when on what looked like a heap of rags at the very edge of the torchlight's flicker I saw the bright gold shape of a lightning-bolt.

But for the hand that closed about mine I would have dropped the torch. I would have fallen too, even as _his_ name spilled from my lips at last in a senseless babble of prayers and entreaties and little love-words. But a strong arm held me up and a steady voice said that we would tend _him_ together, and that all that could be done, would be done.

I could not have lifted him. I would have sunk down and died beside him, holding him in my arms. It was Atreh who lifted him off the cold ground and carried him to the chiefs' tent, where there was the warmth of the brazier and clean blankets to lay him on, and lantern light to see what I feared I must.

Those of the chiefs who still lived were deep in talk. Even they had no better food than those outside, and not much better comfort, but the protection of the tent afforded an island of peace in which to make the detailed plans that the future required. There was a little silence as they realised who it was that Atreh had carried in, but none of them protested; and as Malcolm was gently lowered onto the blanket that had Briai's tribe-mark burned into the corner, they went back to their low-voiced talk.

With trembling hands I peeled back the bloody rags in which he had been swathed.

Ai! he had lost so much blood he was all but white. The only colour on him was across his cheekbones, which stood like blades in the thinness of his face, and it was the blaze of fever. His eyes partly opened as he was set down, but they were glazed and far too bright, and though I called him gently, he did not know me.

Atreh brought clean warm water, and between us we washed him. In truth, his state was not as bad as I had feared. Much of the blood with which he had been covered when I first saw him must not have been his own, and as my companion told me the tale of what had happened I knew whose it had been; Briai and his horse had taken the first and worst of the blast when the _cannon_ exploded. But for them, Malcolm certainly would not have lived, and I sent thanks to their spirits in the Eternal Grazing Lands for their sacrifice.

But he was still sorely hurt, and it had been the Gods' mercy that this evening's examination by the Healers had not reached him yet. Given the heat that already radiated from his flesh, it was probable that he would have been deemed destined for the Bridge, and despatched thither.

The cuts I had stitched appeared – by some miracle – to be free of taint, at least so far, though there was plenty of time for that to change. I was finally able to clean those I had not been able to treat at first, and some of them were in a less satisfying condition. Parts of his skin were burned, though I thought not so badly it was likely to blister; my heart quailed at the image of him being even partly caught in that great explosion in the dawn whose flash had whitened the walls even before the thunderous roar of it echoed and re-echoed in the confined space. Also, as I pressed gently on his abdomen, he moaned. Probably there was some injury within, and even if by some miracle I could have discovered what it was, I had no means of treating it.

"Find the herb-master." I spoke to Atreh as though I were the chief-elect and he the lowly maid with the brown eyes. "If you must cut it from his dead body, get me some salve."

"I will do what I can, Jessa." His voice was quiet. "If it is to be found, I will find it for you." He hesitated for a moment, and then went on, "I believed he was dead. I swear before all the Gods, if I had known he was alive I would have brought him to you."

I did not watch as he left the tent. I was too busy touching and stroking the face that I had feared never to see again in this life, and dropping kisses on its wet brow. Despite the sweat on it, Malcolm began to shiver; I snatched other blankets, caring nothing whether their owners approved or no, and heaped them on him, praying only that I could keep the life in him along with the warmth.

Once before we had been like this, but that was before, in the world I inhabited no longer. That was before I had come alive, as though he had touched a statue of carved ivory and breathed life into it. That was before he had said my name in the way no-one else in the world said it; before he had smiled at me. Before he had loved me.

I crawled in under the blankets, cradling his poor broken body, achingly careful not to put pressure on any of the hurt places. His skin was burning hot, but he muttered incoherently: _"_ C _old … c-c-cold..."_ , and shivers coursed through him till they rattled the teeth in his head.

"My own soul. My own life. My own heart." I did not care who heard me, or what they thought. My tears spilled over his face, washing it. "Your babe needs you. _I_ need you. I beg you, do not leave us!"

There was no reply. His gaze wandered past me, blind and glassy, and he whispered something through cracked lips. I would have given him ripe fruit dripping with honey new from the comb, I would have fed him the finest cuts of meat, I would have baked bread till its crust was cracked gold and helped him to eat it morsel by morsel, each sweetened with a kiss.

I levered myself up on one elbow. There did not seem to be any food in the tent, but one of the chiefs was sipping from a dented drinking-horn. "Give it to me!" I demanded, thrusting out my hand.

More than one pair of eyebrows rose, but again there was no complaint. A little reluctantly, I thought, the man rose, walked across the tent and handed me the horn. I would have given him to drink from a cup fashioned of sunlight, brimming with wine that was fragrant with the flowers and fruit of unnumbered vanished summers.

There was only a little liquid left in the bottom: ale, eked out with warm water.

With a belly-hurt, Malcolm should not be allowed to drink. Yet I could not bear the sight of his thirst, and the warmth would help him.

"Only a little, my own." I put the rim of the horn to his mouth, measuring the tilt of it carefully. "See, now, this will do you good…"

He recognised the sensation, for he moaned eagerly and one hand moved as though to seize the cup and hold it. But it fell back on the blankets; he had not the strength or the wits to complete the movement. His throat moved as the watered ale went down it, but I could not give him anything like what his thirst demanded, and the small gasp of dismay as I took away the horn again tore at me.

"Here." Atreh had returned unnoticed and now squatted beside me. "I had not to carve it from his dead body, but he did not give it willingly."

I snatched the jar and sniffed at the contents. They were a little stale, but they would serve. "Why not?" I asked angrily.

"I told him who it was for."

Mother of Mares! I had never realised I knew so many curses. I enumerated them all as I smeared the stuff gently on Malcolm's wounds, trying not to disturb the clotting that had sealed them, and caring not at all for the scandalised looks from across the tent. The burns, being clean, I left; treatment with this particular herb would only aggravate them.

Atreh watched for a few moments in silence, and then when he had the understanding of what should be done, he helped me.

When we were done, the salve was almost all used up. I refused to give into the guilt that nudged at me. Had it not been for this man, there would be no need of salve for anyone; the dead need no tending, and slaves receive none.

The chill had passed. Malcolm lay more easily between us, though his ribs still rose and fell too quickly. I tucked the blanket more closely around him and slipped my arm carefully around his chest. His right breast was unmarked, and I laid my head on it, hearing his heart beating too swiftly, pounding out the thunder of his fever; but so long as it still beat at all, I blessed every thud of it in my ear.

"How far are we from home?" I asked quietly.

Atreh had settled down beside us, cross-legged, hunched in his own blanket. His face looked weary beyond words, but he answered me readily enough. "Not as far as you might think."

He obviously caught my look of surprise, for the skin around his eyes crinkled with faint amusement. "I told you once, and not so long ago, that maids have no sense of direction."

"No, but… surely we have ridden such a long way…"

"Indeed we have. But travelling to reach Plahik's territory took us west and a little south. If we ride for perhaps another three days we should reach the Pass of Eirog, which will take us through the mountains, and then another day, maybe, will see us at the Sacred Cave."

Doubtless he saw the tightening of my mouth at that, for he leaned forward and spoke gently but firmly. "Jessa, there are healers among the priest-kind at the Cave. Vais, for one. I do not disparage your knowledge or your experience, but surely no wise man – or woman either – refuses help if it is to be had."

 _Da-dup, Da-dup, Da-dup, Da-dup_ , went the heart under my cheek. Too fast. Far too fast. Malcolm's body shook to the thunder of it, or maybe he was shivering again – I could not tell, for I too was shivering, with terror that I had found him only to lose him again.

I pressed my face against him, silently entreating him with all my heart not to leave me. But his too-swift breathing did not change, and there was no reply.


	57. Chapter 57: Atreh

If the Gods had ordained the circumstances to be other than they were, things could have been done differently.

But a man can only deal with the circumstances in which he finds himself, and so we who survived the battle had very little choice.

Water we had in plenty, and for the first day or two there was food and to spare – the dead horses provided us meat, and we even made some effort to dry some of it against future need. But then the rains came, putting an end to the makeshift drying-lines, and we had no shelter for the wounded, and little means of keeping warm for any of us.

In the ordinary way of things, a warrior takes little heed of sleeping wet. Our lives make us hard against such small discomforts. But this was in addition to exhaustion and poor diet, and the corpses we had no means to burn or bury began to rot, so that for want of any other food men ate tainted meat from the dead horses.

Normally, eating the flesh of our mounts would be unthinkable, but the priests had offered prayers to beseech the understanding and forgiveness of those who had already given their lives and could now sustain the living. At first all had been well, but then the meat started to decay. If we remained here it was only a matter of time before the sickness that soon reared its head began to spread, and that would finish what The Others had started.

So I and the other chiefs made the decision that could not be anything else, and told the Healers that we must move out and begin the long journey home. To us the Gods had been kinder than many others: we were not so far from our village, though indeed it would be a long and weary journey, travelling as we must at the speed of the slowest.

As we assembled the travelling party – Ishir's Mane, so much smaller than the one we had brought here! – I turned my thoughts resolutely to what must be done to face the coming winter. The village still had to be fed and kept warm through the long cold months, and as soon as the injured were safely bestowed in our own tents where the women could care for them, I and the remaining warriors would have to go hunting. The sishev herds would be on the move, and we had to take advantage of this annual bounty or everyone in the village would starve long before the God brought his warmth back to us again. Not until our larders were well stocked would there be rest for us; but still, I thought, as I tightened the girth around Vey's ribs (where the bones within were too visible already), at least in the hunt we might rediscover normality. And normality, I suspected, was a thing of which most of us stood in as great need as of food, drink, warmth or rest.

At last everything was ready. As we were one of the smallest parties, it took us the least time to prepare, and seeing this Plahik walked over to me to bid us ride in the God's path on our way home.

He seemed worn down, and I could well understand why. His valley that had been lush and beautiful when we arrived was now a lake of wrecked trees and rotting horse-bodies. The latter had been moved into the watercourse, so that when the winter floods came they would be carried away, but until then they were noisome, and attracted carrion-eaters. Of course all those who came were helping to strip the bones, but still it seemed an ignoble end for beasts who had given their lives bravely; and even last night I had heard cries that betokened some man mourning the loss of his mount had been driven by the sounds of quarrelling to rush at the nearest and drive them from their feasting, at least for a while.

"It will grow again," I said, gesturing at the broken woodland. "And your generosity with it helped to save the People."

"Let us hope The Others do not think to come back for another try," he answered with a grim smile, glancing around at what remained of the brave host who had won the battle at such great cost. For indeed, we were in no shape to win another.

I had been trying not to think of that. But whatever else, we had won a respite, and taught them to fear us. And if in some future day they did return, that was a bridge to be crossed when our horses' feet touched it. "If they do, we shall know that they can be defeated," I said steadily.

He nodded, and patted Vey's neck. He was about to turn away, but checked and glanced up at me again, frowning. "And the sorcerer?"

"Still living." I did not add, _but not, I think, for long, unless his fever breaks._ Malcolm was burning up. He had been strapped onto a drag, like the six others too sorely wounded to ride, and Haiz had accepted his strange new burden with only a little sidling and snorting. They and the others were in the midst of the fifty and eighteen warriors who were fit to bestride their horses, and Jessa sat Arach beside him, her face like new milk and her eyes like holes in it.

Another nod. "His duty has cost him dearly," he said soberly. "May the Gods reward him for it."

I thought the same could be said for Jessa, but that was not Plahik's affair.

With a brief word of farewell I turned Vey aside and led the way out of the valley. And only the Gods know how glad I was to leave it behind.

=/\=

We had known even before we set out that the journey would place a huge demand on those ill-fitted to bear it.

Despite all that Jessa and her three helpers could do, two of the seven we carried with us died on the way. We had no wood to build pyres and no priest with us to say the holy words that would set their feet safely on the Bridge; Roish would have known them, but she had remained with her brother priests to carry out the rites to clean the valley of any evil spirits that might lurk there. Lacking her, we could only pile stones on top of the bodies of our dead (and stones there were in plenty, on that cruel ride around the foothills!) and resolve to bring home their bones to be accorded the due reverence when opportunity offered.

Thankfully, neither of the two was Malcolm. Every morning I woke looking to find Jessa ripping out her hair with grief, and every morning she was still tending to him, feeding him tiny sips of water and wiping away the sweat as it oozed from his body. No mother ever nursed a sick child with more devotion than she did that man. If the breath in her mouth would have given him life she would have breathed it into him without a second thought.

But there was no doubt that daily he was growing weaker. He no longer had the strength to move at all, but simply lay – waiting, I thought, for the end. He must have had the determination of the God to have lived thus far, but still he refused to die. Maybe his spirit heard Jessa's constant, desperate calling, and hesitated with one foot on the Bridge, loath to leave her.

As we turned at last into the Pass of Eirog in the dawn of the fourth day, and knew our faces were once more turned towards our own lands, I reined back and made my way to where Haiz was plodding patiently forward, his rein tied to the nearest ridden horse's girth.

At his hindquarter, Arach walked almost without guidance. Jessa rode with her eyes on Malcolm as though she feared that should she glance aside for one moment then his spirit would take the chance to slip away.

"Today will be difficult," I told her quietly. "It is not so bad for horses, but the drags will need to be lifted when the going grows hard."

"And you say we will reach the Cave by evening?" I did not know which was worse to hear: the fear in her hoarse voice, or the hope. But worse than either was to destroy the illusion she clearly had that help was so near.

"It will take us the best part of a day to get through the Pass." Good riders on sound horses could have traversed it in half a morning, but our pace was slow, so desperately slow. "We must let the horses rest, little maid. And even men cannot ride indefinitely. Maybe by tomorrow's evening."

Her clenched fist hit Arach's shoulder, and the mare grunted in surprised hurt at being punished for nothing. Immediately Jessa was remorseful and made much of her, patting and soothing her until the laid-back ears straightened and all was well again between them. Though throughout the apologies, tears streamed down her face that had naught to do with a horse struck unjustly.

"He will not live till tomorrow's evening!" She flared it at me at last, gesturing to the man on the drag. "Mother of Mares, he may not live to see the sun set _today!_ "

I had thought she could not see it. Shame on me, for forgetting how she must have watched those three who died of the marsh fever burn up in it. However bound up her heart might be, she was a Healer in blood and bone, and for all the tears in her eyes, her sight was still mercilessly clear.

And yet, I could not halve the distance we still had to travel, however hard I wished it.

Suddenly her hand clamped on my arm. For all their smallness, her fingers gripped hard enough to hurt. "We have to go faster. Atreh, if we tear blankets into strips to give us cords – could the ends of the drags be tied onto other horses?"

For a moment I did not understand what she meant. Then, as I tried to imagine how such a thing could be done, I saw at once the advantages of it. If we could keep the injured suspended rather than having to jolt them over the rough ground, not only would we be able to keep up a far better pace, but they would be carried in far better comfort.

It took a little while to explain and organise, and longer to devise how it could be done without endangering those we sought to help, but on the whole there was not too great a delay before our band set out again, now with each of the wounded borne between three horses rather than trailed behind one. It seemed marvellous to me how the change wrought a difference in even those not immediately involved. Spirits that had been low and weary lifted, and Bihiv drew the harp from his pack and struck up a song that first one and then another took up. It was a very rude song about a maid who resolved to work her way through every man in her village (and a very large village it was, by the number of verses), and by the end of it the chief was pleading with her to leave his exhausted warriors alone and have the he-goat instead. The tale did not tell whether she took him up on it, but the verses were bawdy and the chorus well worth bawling out; by the time she was chasing the tenth warrior around the fire-pit most of us were singing along with it, and even Jessa wore the ghost of a smile at hearing her brother's voice lifted in gaiety.


	58. Chapter 58: T'Pol

_Personal Log, Stardate 11 February, 2154._

Emotions.

How do Humans cope?

All these emotions are a burden I can hardly bear, a force I can hardly control. I have lost my power of equanimity, lost the comfort and security I once found in my Vulcan heritage of passionless logic.

In the interests of the mission I must continue to be what I always have been: Vulcan, stoic. Yet inside I am torn and burned, consumed by the heat of my green blood.

No wonder our ancestors came to the conclusion that such passions must be kept under the firmest control. No wonder that for generations they fought to bring them tightly into order, so that but for the time of the _pon farr_ we, not they, would rule.

Trellium.

There was no mention of its more sinister properties in the Vulcan Database. Doubtless if there had been, the unfortunates aboard the _Seleya_ would have known better than to begin coating their vessel with it in the attempt to ward off the anomalies populating the Expanse. As it was, in order to protect themselves from one enemy they exposed themselves to a worse. I can hardly bear to remember what we saw during that attempted rescue, but each time I have attempted to wean myself off my addiction, I begin to understand how they could have fallen so low. The anxiety is so unbearable I feel that I am losing my sanity. I am unable to function until I have more. In that state, I can feel such … anger, such hostility, such _fear_ , that I am literally a danger to the ship.

And mixed with the anger and the fear – lust. Another of the demons that the trellium has released.

The man whom I desire has eyes for nothing but _the mission._ Were I still in my right mind I would admire and applaud him for that. It is only right that all of his energies should be directed towards the salvation of his planet.

But my 'right mind' was lost long ago. Foolishly I tried to deal with the withdrawal symptoms alone and in silence, and even more foolishly I dwelled on the memory of the emotions that so intrigued me in the aftermath of that ill-fated rescue mission. The deaths of those men with whom I had served should have taught me a lesson, but instead I told myself that I could cope. That the loss of the _Seleya_ 's crew was the fault of Lieutenant Reed, who (I believed) had sequenced the actuator circuits incorrectly during the realignment process.

I blamed him. Shortly after our return, he was dead, and in my folly a part of me secretly thought that justice had been done. Now, I feel the absence of his quiet stability, his honor. I do not know if he made a mistake with the actuator circuits; maybe the mistake was mine, for by then I could hardly remember the sequence myself in order to instruct him. I do know, however, that Captain Voris and his crew would rather have been dead than so reduced. Maybe the same thing will happen to me that happened to them.

In my madness, I blamed the captain. I even accused him of murdering the crew of the _Seleya._

I think that Jonathan believes it was an isolated incident. I have been careful not to let him suspect that his First Officer is now a trellium addict; the burden he already carries is more than he can bear. Further, he bears the loss of every member of his crew as an additional burden, weighing him down. Mal– _Lieutenant Reed_ 's loss was a heavy blow to him, as well as to the ship, that I believe he still feels deeply. So I felt satisfaction – however briefly – in a thing that caused him pain.

And if these were not enough, I took to my bed the last man on the ship able to deal with the trauma that would follow when I was unable to deal with the emotional consequences. I had not even the _pon farr_ as my excuse. Commander Tucker wanted me; he was experienced with women. And I was curious, and reckless as I had been on the night I went secretly to the jazz club in San Francisco. I had already seen that females found him attractive, and my blood ran hot.

He was an accomplished lover. But almost at once I realized that it was more to him – much, much more – than a meaningless sexual encounter. Whatever it was to me, to him this was of enormous significance. Next morning, realizing too late the complications that might ensue, I attempted to remedy matters and merely made them worse. And Tr– the commander no longer has his friend to lean on for comfort. The captain has abandoned him and I have betrayed him, and his friend is dead.

(It appears he found his consolation, however. I watch his easy interaction with Ensign Sato, and sometimes I feel such a lust to kill that I have to leave the room.)

It seems to me sometimes that were I in the pay of the Xindi I could hardly have done more harm.

But the captain is en route to the Xindi Council, and I have my work to do. I am about to accompany Ensign Gomez, Ensign Mayweather and one of the MACOs to one of the Spheres in an attempt to retrieve the redundant memory core from it. Fortunately, the doctor has informed me that I no longer have any trellium in my system, but I am still aware that I am not properly in control of myself.

Emotions.

How do Humans deal with them as successfully as they do?

Sometimes I thought that Lieutenant Reed was almost Vulcan in his self-control. It makes me marvel at him all the more, that he could present such a calm outer face to the world when beneath it there must have been so much…

…passion.

Whose is Ensign Sato's child? The question gnaws at me. Was it the fruit of that unsuspected passion? I saw him look at me across the Bridge. He was a man, he lusted. But when I offered it, he refused me.

She speaks so easily to … _Trip._ I have heard them laugh together. I did not want him, I wanted … _Jonathan._ But he was willing, wanting. Now when I hear him laugh I feel the hot sting of possessiveness.

When Vulcans mate, a bond can be formed that is all-but impossible to break. I had not believed – I had not even _thought_ that it might be possible for such a thing to happen between a Vulcan and a Human. Now, however, as I feel the rush of jealousy over a man who should be nothing more to me than a colleague whose bed I shared for a night, I am brought up over and over again against the knowledge that it might, and the fear that it has.

And so in the wake of one error come others, and I do not see the end of all the damage that my folly may have unleashed. I, who should have concentrated all my efforts on keeping the ship and crew intact, have myself become a dangerous and potentially deadly flaw.

When we set out, all our thoughts were on the danger that external forces would pose. I do not think any of us realized we were carrying some of the worst dangers in ourselves. Now, however, that truth is being brought home, in a form that I can no longer ignore.

It was probably naïve to even hope that we could complete this mission and return unscathed. But even before we have found the Xindi we have begun to destroy ourselves.

Hope is an emotion; despair, likewise. A true Vulcan would dismiss them both, but in the dark and silence of the night I find myself veering from one to the other, a rudderless ship. Only Jonathan remains, my lodestar in the darkness, and he is flawed and fallible, like any other man. If he falls, how will I survive?

Surak, preserve us.

 _… Computer, end recording._


	59. Chapter 59: Archer

_Hoshi!_

I'd been so busy concentrating on the firefight in which _Enterprise_ was caught up that I'd almost forgotten to look around me. As the whole ship shuddered from the Reptilian bastards' direct hit on our port nacelle, I almost missed the shimmer of light that was my comm officer being beamed away from the Bridge.

"Hoshi!" I shouted her name fruitlessly, as I bounded out of the command chair and leaped over to her station as though in ridiculous hope that for some unknown reason she might have just fallen down out of sight behind it.

She hadn't, of course.

I looked around at the bridge officers. T'Pol was on the Sphere, as were Travis and Gomez. Müller was manning Tactical, and for all that he'd done a great job at landing a few shots on the unbelievably fast and maneuverable Insectoid ships, and even a couple of what should have been telling ones on the huge and impossibly-armored Reptilian warship, he might as well have been firing balls of cotton candy. As _Enterprise_ slowed to a stop, the helm officer using thrusters to maintain control, I could only think desperately that this was where I most needed experienced back-up. The beta- and gamma-crew officers I had here were great individuals and doing their best, but they just hadn't had the hours directly under fire that my alpha bridge officers had. The years had welded us into a team that was so close it seemed to me sometimes that we could almost anticipate each other's thoughts and actions, and that – more than anything else – was what I was missing now.

On the screen, there was no-one and nothing close enough and strong enough to prevent the Reptilian ship from opening a vortex. The menacing shape of the weapon and the ships escorting it were swallowed up in that huge shimmering maw, and next second the damned thing was gone as though it had never been.

The most experienced officer I had left on the ship was Trip, and he was busy nursing the engines that had already had eight bells kicked out of them. I could have imagined the stream of profanity he'd be coming out with now, with the nacelle fried, but frankly I didn't want to. I was having enough problems refraining from coming out with some of my own, but that's one of the burdens of being the captain: your crew have to see you calm and in command all the time, even when inside you're actually cursing a blue streak and haven't the faintest damned idea what the hell you're going to do next.

The launch codes. The enemy had the weapon but they didn't have the launch codes. I clung to that as though it was the only thing between me and the hard vacuum of space. Degra had told me that each of the four Xindi races had an access code and that three of them were required to launch it, a safeguard felt necessary in a Council which was often volatile to say the least (and having encountered the Reptilians I could well believe that was an understatement). So far I had only his word for that, but my instinct had told me from the start that he was a decent guy. Maybe it was because I wanted so desperately to believe he'd told me the truth, but I _did_ believe it. They had two of the codes; they needed at least one more. They might have gained access to the others, but these were heavily encrypted. Reptilian brains might be bigger than the walnut-size I'd taunted them with when I was held captive on their ship, but I definitely didn't believe they ran to that kind of mental super-processing. At a guess, their warships wouldn't be built with that kind of software either; the encryptions wouldn't even be in their language.

 _Language…_

I stared in despair at Hoshi's empty seat.

=/\=

" _Lost_ her?"

Trip was so deeply absorbed in ordering the latest frantic round of running repairs that it was clear he hadn't even taken in what I was saying. He still had his hands inside an open panel, and I didn't dare reprimand him for not paying attention to me in case he stopped paying attention to what he was doing, and I ended up short a Chief Engineer as well. "Rostov, check those readin's again! This thing is runnin' way too hot!" he shouted, before turning a half-bewildered, half-distracted stare on me. "What d'you mean, you've lost her?"

I waited till he'd gotten his hands away from anything that looked likely to fry him. "The damn Reptilians took her," I said, trying desperately for patience. "Or the Insectoids, I don't know. Somebody. They transported her off the Bridge. I'm guessing they need her to break the encryption on the other two launch codes – or one of them at least."

Now I really had his attention. "The baby?" he asked immediately.

I'm going to sound like a complete asshole, but I've never been nearer to shaking him. All he could think of was that damned baby, and all I could think of was the damned launch codes.

I wasn't even sure why I'd come down here, though I suppose I wanted to get a look for myself at how they were coping. We were waiting for the shuttle to catch up with us, and I suppose if I'm completely honest, a part of me just wanted to touch base and check he was okay. Command was a lonely place right then, with the weapon in play and the possible key to control of it snatched off our ship; and I could do with any glimmer of good news I could catch hold of.

"The sooner we can get the ship moving again, the sooner we can go after her," I said, as soon as I was sure that I wouldn't lose my temper, which I'd done far too often of late as my nerves shredded under the weight of the responsibility on my shoulders. "I just wanted to see how you were getting on and keep you up to date. The shuttle's on the way, it should be with us soon. In the meantime I'm going to talk to Hayes and put him in the picture."

Trip nodded, his eyes dark with trouble. I thought he was going to say more, but whatever he'd had in mind, he thought better of it. I could imagine what it would have been. Even now he was still grieving. Relations between Armory and Engineering had used to be sparky; now they were icy. I didn't know which was worse, Malcolm's feud with Hayes or Trip's sullen resentment of him, and I didn't have the time or the attention to spare to worry about it. Mostly I'd admired Hayes for the aplomb with which he'd coped with not one but two senior Starfleet officers who apparently hadn't outgrown kindergarten behavior, though on the one earlier occasion when I'd mentioned Malcolm's hissy-fit attitude Trip had sprung to his friend's defense with a vehemence that had startled me into wondering if Hayes was entirely the innocent I'd thought him. I still thought he probably had been most of the time, but one of my many regrets was that I'd never taken the time to reassure a Tactical Officer whom I knew to be deeply insecure that I valued his services to the ship, and wasn't considering Hayes as his replacement. If I'd only done that, I think things would have been a whole lot more peaceful.

"Don't take any risks," I said futilely, patting Trip awkwardly on the shoulder as I turned away. "I don't want to lose you too."

He nodded, but he didn't say anything.

I wasn't sure what there was to say.


	60. Chapter 60: Hayes

_'Did you try hard enough to find Lieutenant Reed?'_

That damn question had never been far from the back of my thoughts whenever I had to deal with the Fleeter officers, and it was the first one that slammed into my mind when I got the first report from the shuttle that the away team took to the Sphere.

Hawkins was dead. Gomez had been in charge of the security personnel, and my corporal was the only casualty.

 _Had she tried hard enough to protect a MACO?_

She'd never forgiven me for Reed's death, and by now I was certain she never would. But whether she hated me enough to deliberately let one of my men get killed – that was a whole different ball game. She had a ferocious sense of right and wrong, I knew that much. She'd got the passionate Latin temperament, for all that it was buckled down iron-hard under the discipline Reed demanded from all his staff.

I'd got a whole load of questions to ask her when the shuttle returned, but events soon intervened. _Enterprise_ had to take off after the weapon when it was unexpectedly launched, and I had my hands full making sure my teams were primed and ready if we were ordered to assault the enemy Xindi ships escorting it.

Sounds of firing and the shake of the deck-plating under our feet told us that battle had been joined. Soon afterwards, though – too soon afterwards – everything went quiet.

We were still waiting tensely for orders when I was summoned to the Bridge.

I saw as soon as I exited the turbo-lift that the ship was no longer moving. At a guess we'd taken some kind of damage to our propulsion system; I could hardly imagine the captain ordering us to come to a halt for any reason, not when the weapon was on the move. There was nothing on the screen – no weapon, not even another ship, just motionless stars.

The second thing I saw was that the Communications Station was vacant. I knew Ensign Sato had been there earlier, and the fact that nobody had been ordered to take her place suggested she hadn't been relieved of duty.

Captain Archer rose from his chair as soon as I arrived. His face was tight with tension. "Major, Ensign Sato has been kidnapped by the Reptilians. Probably because she has the ability to decrypt the launch codes for the weapon. We need to get her back before that happens, and I don't need to tell you how important that is."

"Sir." The prospect of real action after almost eight months of waiting went through me like an electric charge.

"We're still talking with the Xindi, trying to find out where they've gone. As soon as we have any information I want you to put together a boarding party, and the minute we catch up with them it'll be your job to carry out a rescue. I'll have the full reports on the enemy ships and the weapon structure sent to you so you can make your plans in advance."

I could tell how impatience was grinding him; even if the threat to Earth wasn't immediate, still the very fact that the weapon was spaceborne was enough to have him sick with the fear we might be too late to save our world. But at least it seemed that some of the Xindi were willing to listen, and with any luck and the captain's powers of persuasion, they might even be talked around into helping.

"I've got to go talk to the Xindi again, see if I can talk them into believing in us. In the meantime, the shuttle will be back with us soon. I heard about Corporal Hawkins. I'm sorry." He dropped a hand on my shoulder in condolence. Sometimes even now I caught glimpses of the man he'd used to be, according to the word around the ship; though I guessed it had been a long while now since he'd had the capacity to show that kind of compassion.

"In the meantime, put your plans together. I know we can rely on you."

"We'll do our very best, sir," I replied smartly.

The responsibility had dropped around my shoulders like a ton weight by the time I made it back to where my officers were waiting for the word. As if I hadn't personally had a soft spot for Ensign Sato, who'd tried hard to make us feel welcome when we first came aboard, I had a strong suspicion as to the identity of the mystery man whose baby she was carrying. And all overlaid with the fact that singlehandedly she could enable the weapon to destroy Earth.

 _'Did you try hard enough to find Lieutenant Reed?'_

Sure enough, the schematics were with us very shortly, and I sat down with my squad leaders to formulate plans of attack. We were all aware that we might have a limited field of action; now the battle had moved out into space, it was the Fleeters who would do most of the fighting, with what armaments the badly damaged ship still had in working order. Still, if we were ordered to deploy, perhaps to subdue crews in partially damaged ships that might still represent a threat, I had every intention of making sure that every man or woman in my team knew exactly what they were up against in terms of the environment they'd be facing and what their best routes would be to take control of the vessel.

We were all but done by the time the message I'd been waiting for arrived: the Shuttle was back with us and would dock shortly.

Still, I made sure that everything I could possibly think of to address was sealed and stamped before I wrapped up the meeting and went down to the launch bay. I had a few minutes to spare, and if Hawkins' body had been retrieved then I wanted to do him the honor of being present when it was returned to the ship. In my gut I also wanted to weigh up Gomez's reactions to me, but the professional thing to do would be to wait till I had her official report and read it carefully to find out exactly what happened before I went over it with her.

It wasn't a surprise that she was first out of the shuttle, and stiffened when she saw me. I looked past her into the inside, but there was no body. I wasn't altogether surprised; sometimes there's just no time to retrieve a casualty, and sometimes you just have to think of the living. Though I'll admit my suspicions darkened a little. Would she have made more effort if it had been a Fleeter?

T'Pol was almost on her heels. She looked a little tired, but otherwise she was as impassive as always. "Report, please, Major."

I snapped into position and gave her a brief résumé of what had happened. Although I was looking at my superior officer, I was aware of the reactions of the two ensigns – Mayweather had been piloting, and came out as I was speaking about Ensign Sato's abduction.

He definitely paled, and his initial friendly smile disappeared from his face, to be replaced by fear. Some of the ship's gossips had him down for the baby's father, but he wasn't the horse I had my money on. Still, I knew he and Sato were close friends as well as brother officers, so I wasn't in the least surprised by his reaction.

Gomez was more disciplined, and showed less, but I didn't miss what little there was. I could guess that if and when the time came for the rescue party to be chosen, she'd elbow her way to the front of the volunteers. I wouldn't choose her, of course – as a Fleeter armory officer, her place was on the ship, and she'd have to deal with that. I knew through McKenzie's good offices that she and Sato were close, so maybe there was no more to it than that, but I suspected that if anyone knew the truth, she would…

Still, that was the last thing I had time to worry about right now.

"Permission to return to my station, Sub-Commander," I said to T'Pol after I'd finished my brief report.

She nodded. "Certainly, Major." She glanced aside at the two ensigns. "You are both excused the last half-hour of your shifts. Report to your stations first thing in the morning."

"Permission to bring myself up to speed with the status of the Armoury before I retire, Sub-Commander," Gomez replied instantly.

"Granted." She left the launch bay, clearly on her way to the Bridge to confer with the captain. Mayweather followed her, looking tired and shocked; I doubted he'd sleep much, even if he went straight to bed.

His fellow-ensign was about to follow them, but I touched her lightly on the arm to detain her. "I'd like a word with you before you leave, Ensign."

She stopped immediately, and swung to face me. If she'd been a ship her hull plating would have been at one hundred per cent, though she was outwardly completely professional and properly respectful. She didn't fear me in the slightest; she was simply locking me out, exactly the way she'd done since we came back from that damned mine five months ago. "Sir. The full report on this mission will be on your terminal before nineteen hundred hours."

I exhaled. There must be some way to reach her, but I didn't know what it was; there had been a dead man standing in between us for a long time. But now there were two dead men: hers and mine.

Did that make us even? Did it make any difference at all?

"I'm sure of that, Ensign, but since our senior officer just put you off duty till tomorrow morning I won't expect your report tonight. But that wasn't what I wanted to discuss.

"As soon as we find out where the enemy ships are, I have the captain's orders to organize a rescue party for Ensign Sato. I know you'll want to be included, and I want you to know that if you volunteer you'll be refused."

Not so much as a twitch. I'd have recruited her as a MACO if I'd thought she'd come.

"May I ask why, _Comandante_?" she asked, with glacial calm.

"You already know the reasons, Ensign: the safety of the ship is a priority. _Enterprise_ has lost the best tactical officer in the business, and Müller – as good a shot as he is – doesn't routinely score quite as high in the target ratings as you do."

I took a deep breath. Now for it.

"I've made you wait a while for the answer to that question you asked me. Are you still interested?"

She studied me. "I think you will tell me the truth," she said eventually, without a hint of a smile. It hardly qualified as a proper way to address a superior officer, but that wasn't what I wanted from her now; over the past few months I'd come to recognize what Reed had valued in her, and I wanted the same kind of openness and trust – if I could earn it.

I'd never told her that I'd revealed my doubts to the captain and been chewed out over them. It couldn't do any good for her to know, and could do a lot of harm. Better for her resentment to be focused solely on me than worsened with regard to the captain – there were already enough stresses and strains on his relationship with his officers right now without adding any more.

I didn't have to feign honesty; I simply gave it to her. "Then the answer is this: that I believed then, and I believe now, that given the information we had to hand at the time, there was nothing, _nothing_ more we could have done to rescue Lieutenant Reed.

"I won't deny it to you, I did question afterwards whether it would be worth going back for another look. But the mission had to come first. Lieutenant Reed would have been the first to agree with me on that.

"Given the situation, though, I still believe now that he was killed. Had I believed differently at the time, I would have put every bit of the effort into trying to retrieve him that I intend to put into retrieving Ensign Sato, the instant the Captain gives me the word."

She measured me for a long time.

There was still no smile, but she nodded slowly. "Then, _Comandante_ , I shall pray for your success this time."


	61. Chapter 61: Sato

Dolim.

If there was anyone I didn't want to see as I was marched into what looked like some kind of holding cell, it was him.

It was obvious as soon as I materialized on the transporter platform that I'd been abducted by Reptilians. I felt a stab of terror for my unborn baby; I'd hated and feared the transporter even when it had been that of my own ship, designed for humans. Who was to say how accurately this one had been configured? It could have done all sorts of damage.

I had to shove that thought to the back of my mind, though. I'd sworn to the captain (and very nearly _at_ the captain, he'd been such an asshole) that my pregnancy wouldn't make me any less effective a Starfleet officer. And it was as a Bridge officer of Starfleet's flagship that I faced up to this overgrown lizard in his suit of armor. I might be shaking inside, but I wasn't going to let him see it.

"You had no right to bring me here!" I yelled at him.

He bent towards me. "I must have forgotten to ask your captain's permission," he grated. "Fortunately, they won't be able to interfere.

"I was impressed with your linguistics ability back in the Council Chamber. For a non-Xindi, you're remarkably… fluent."

"I can say 'Go to hell' in more than twenty languages, not counting the dialects," I bit back.

He nodded patronizingly. "I've already discovered from your Captain Archer how Humans are good at _talking_ ," he sneered. "What we may be interested in looking into with you is how good they are at _protecting their young_." His gaze ran down my body and settled on my belly.

"I won't betray my people. No matter what." I don't think my voice quavered, but his eyes narrowed and he nodded amiably.

"Of course you won't," he agreed. "So you won't have any objections if our little … persuasive methods happen to have 'unfortunate consequences' for whatever you're carrying in there."

I was being unduly modest. Actually it was thirty-one, and I embroidered it with a few adjectives that I certainly hadn't added to the Universal Translator's matrix.

The epithets bounced off his armored hide as though they'd been peanuts. He crossed his arms and smirked. "We can give you a little more time to think about your situation, Ensign. We'll arrive at the Sol system late tomorrow, and before then I intend to have the encryptions broken and the launch codes in my hands. You can give me them freely or I can instruct my interrogators to get them – whatever the cost."

"They can try," I spat.

He didn't even bother to reply. He nodded, and the two ugly bastards who'd dragged me in there held me while he walked out. Then they tossed me to the far side of the room and followed him.

Then the lights went out.

'A little more time', he'd said.

That could be a few more minutes, or a few more hours.

I felt my way to a corner and sat down in it, fighting not to cry with fear and rage. I had no doubt that they'd do exactly what Dolim said they would. I knew they wouldn't give a damn about my baby. Or about me. They'd do whatever they needed to. And though I wanted to believe that the Reptilian's confidence was a bluff, I didn't think it was. He could do what he said he would. He could get the codes through me.

I crossed my arms across my abdomen. Underneath them, Malcolm's baby squirmed and kicked out. It was still hardly more than a flutter of sensation, but I felt it clearly by now.

Would cooperating save us?

I despised myself even as the question stole into my head. But I had the right to sacrifice my own life. My right to sacrifice my baby's was less clear, even though I knew, I _knew_ , that resistance was the only thing I could do in the circumstances. It wasn't even as though Dolim had offered me a deal. At a guess, hating Humans as much as he did, I'd be disposed of the moment I'd ceased to be useful. He wasn't offering me a way out because he'd suddenly gotten soft-hearted; he simply wanted me to snatch at any straw that might save my baby, and save his torturers the time and trouble.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," I whispered, blinking back the tears as I stroked the fabric across my belly. "I guess you'll be meeting your daddy soon." And I would too, probably, if there _was_ an afterlife. It horrified me how sometimes I seemed to have problems even remembering what Malcolm had looked like, how he was already so far in the past.

On board _Enterprise_ , after they'd told us he was dead, I used to go down to the Armory and practice with the phase pistols, trying to increase my hit ratio. Some days it felt as though I only had to turn around and he'd be there, with that rueful little half-smile tugging at his mouth; now and then I almost felt his hands, correcting my stance and setting the pistol at the proper elevation while he breathed in my perfume. Once, Major Hayes came in and helpfully came over to give me some pointers. I don't think he ever suspected how close he'd been to getting kicked in the balls.

That was how Malcolm and I got involved, of course. Phase pistol practice. For the longest time he was all ultra-correct and professional, never putting a finger out of place. At least till the day he told me off for forgetting about particle drift _again,_ at which point I lost my temper and shut him up by grabbing him by the collar and shoving my tongue into his mouth, which was what I'd been dying to do for ages and could never quite get up the nerve for. After which we ended up in his cabin, where he gave me a detailed demonstration of his weapons technique, which was pretty damn amazing considering he'd been lusting after me for months. Or so he said.

We both knew it was against the Regulations. Occasionally I think it bothered him, but more and more as we moved deeper into the Expanse he felt cut off from Jon and – worse still for him, I think – from Trip. In ordinary circumstances I don't think he'd have broken, however secretly pleased he might have been; all I'd have gotten for my unorthodox method of trying to silence a superior officer was being put on report for unprofessional conduct. As it was, both of us knew we might never see Earth again – the chances were we'd bought a one-way ticket. Maybe that was the realization that weakened his defenses, I don't know. Once I'd gotten past those freezing walls of his he was such a complex character, with more facets than a cut diamond, but above all he was incredibly passionate. It made me appreciate all the more how much control it must take him to keep up that front of icy discipline. And, of course, I derived enormous pleasure from my secret knowledge of what lurked behind it – to which only I held the key.

Well. As desperately as I now clung to the hope that Jon would bring _Enterprise_ to my rescue in the nick of time, I knew that the ship had taken serious damage. If she couldn't move, there would be no cavalry charging over the hill for me. And though I tried to bolster my courage by telling myself that if anyone could pull off a miracle with the engines it was Trip, in my innermost heart I knew that I was on my own.


	62. Chapter 62: Makia

They rode out of the darkness, those that were left of the noble warriors who had set out from the village.

I hardly knew them at first. Horse and man, they were shadows of who they had been; and it must have seemed to others as well as to me that spirits walked with them, for I was not the only one of the Gods' servants to make the sign for protection against evil with my left hand, thumb and middle fingers folded in and outer fingers half-crooked to represent the ears of the Wolf.

There are never many of us tending the Cave. The priests and priestesses come and go as the Gods move them, but there is good shelter to be found in some of the side caves, and I had been abed, tucked into the side of Lyassai who held sway here in Roish's absence. Although a big man, and not in the first flush of youth, he was not merely an able lover among the furs but had the additional advantage of being open to suggestion – as long as he did not realise it was happening. The thing had to be done subtly, and I had spent all these late-summer weeks accomplishing it. By now merely the mention of the stranger among Briai's tents brought a frown to his brow, and I had naught to do but praise his wisdom in seeing for himself the threat to the People that this man represented, and how much damage he had already done.

Be sure the tale of my own wrongs had lost nothing in the telling. I was not so foolish as to mention the fact that I had sworn to have vengeance for my brothers, cruelly cut down by the machinations of this servant of the Black One; I merely cried out in the turmoil of my grief that surely someone one day would put themselves in the God's hand by ridding the world of him….

If wishes were curses, it would have been a corpse that they carried in to the warmth of our fires. As it was, I saw with satisfaction that though he still lived (might the Black One take him!), he was ill unto death. The four others who were also carried in were also badly hurt, but their fates were of no importance to me; there was only one whom I wished to see ushered into the Hells.

Nor did I mourn to see what was plainly a body strapped across one of the horses, with Briai's blanket bound around it. My poor Zelav was avenged, and if all went well then Arlay's spirit should soon have the gift I had promised it.

I was less satisfied by the way that Vais – and others who should have been wiser! – began clucking around the stranger like overset hens, running for herbs and potions and the like. I had always thought it unfitting that any part of the enclave should be devoted to the study of physic, but Vais would have it so, and Roish had always deferred to his wisdom, maybe also humouring his great age. Now we saw the result of that, I thought sourly. Time and effort wasted on a man who deserved no more than the kiss of a blade to let out the evil spirit inside him, on its way back to whence it came.

If I had been angered by all this foolishness, I was enraged when a flare of the firelight showed me Jessa kneeling at his far side, one hand resting on her belly in a gesture there was no mistaking. Not only did she still live, the _erakh'a_ had the effrontery to have conceived his child! For all the men who had pleasured me, I had never quickened, and now and again the word 'barren' had crept snakelike through my mind, to be dismissed with ever-growing difficulty. Now she who had bedded but one man in all her worthless life was carrying his child, and I resolved in that moment that when he went to the Undying Fires his brat would follow him, leaving her to mourn them both every day of the rest of her life.

The finger of warning touched me, and I turned my head to find Atreh watching me. I summoned my sweetest smile, and made my way over to him. He was even better among the furs than Lyassai, and surely he would not refuse me this night, the first fruits of victory – for relief and joy were running through the caves at the news that The Others were defeated, and the returning warriors would be offered all that we had.

"I will bring you wine, beloved," I said, running a hand down his shoulder. "Then when all have been fed and rested, you can tell us the story of your triumph."

He was standing, arms folded, watching what went on around the wounded, and for a moment I thought he was not even going to answer. Then his head turned, and my heart chilled at the expression on his face.

"There was no 'triumph', Makia," he said. "We simply did worse to The Others than they could do to us. It is only those who were not there who can call it a victory."

My hand fell away. "But they would have enslaved us!"

"So they would." His gaze returned to Malcolm. "I spoke with him, the day before the battle, and with his parting words he told me something that a wise man among his people once said: 'Never think that war, no matter how necessary, no matter how justified, is not a crime.' I did not understand him then. I think I am a little nearer to it now.

"And I want no wine. I simply want to be with those I love." And he shrugged me off as easily as Syach swatting away a troublesome fly, and walked over to Jessa and knelt beside her.

I thought I would fly into little pieces, my rage was so great. All that I had, this stranger had taken from me. My brothers, my plaything and now my lover! He would die before the sun rose. I swore it.

Lyassai, the fool, should have been taking charge. In Roish's absence, he had the authority to forbid entrance to the caves to any whom he chose. But though he was competent enough with the everyday affairs of the Sacred Cave, I guessed that the advent of so many warriors had so unnerved him that he had whisked himself away to take refuge in the Cave itself, leaving his juniors to sort out matters until the time came for him to re-emerge, aloof and magisterial, and pass judgement on all that had been done in his absence.

All men are fools. Except, perhaps, one only, and he would not trouble me for much longer.

I slipped outside and followed the familiar path around the cliff-face, worn smooth by generations of passing feet.

For long and long I had doubted whether the Gods truly took any interest in the doings of men. Still, even I felt the familiar awe of the place gather around me as I slipped inside, and it was impossible to feel that there was not some watching holiness there. In the centre of the almost perfectly circular space of the Outer Shrine, the Flame burned on its tripod, carefully fed with oil and sheltered from draughts by a shield of hammered horn. It was so quiet that I almost believed I could hear its soft fluttering as I moved past it with the due gesture of reverence.

I was right. Lyassai was in the Inner Shrine, kneeling before the manifestation of the Gods.

I also had to kneel. Whoever moved in here must do so on their knees. And I was not even a Priestess as yet, though I had become an acolyte as part of my design on Lyassai, who was not slow to take advantage of my proximity.

Roish had told me that when _that one_ had arrived, so had many pieces of stone. These had all been cleared away now, with due reverence of course, and placed atop the hill so that the Gods might look down and see them there, for whatever mysterious purpose they had been sent to us. Others had followed later, but after a while there were no more. Only the Pool remained.

It was like a valley mist, held in a pool in the rocky floor, but its surface was grey and shifting in the light of the lamps that burned on either side. Maybe twice the length of a man at its widest part, it had been there as long as the Tales told. None had ever touched it – even those who had hauled away the rocks had taken every care not to touch the stuff in which these rested so strangely. Nothing that behaved in such a way could be other than supernatural, a gateway to the Gods. But it had been no God who had come through it; his injuries had shown that. He was no more than a man, and he would die like a dog.

Carefully and unseen, I loosened the neck of my robe, just enough for it to seem artless. Now and again I dreamed of tempting Lyassai to have me in here, panting and groaning over my naked body while the Gods listened. Maybe one day…

"Master," I breathed, my voice as low and seductive as I could make it (and how he loved me to call him by that name among the furs!). "I would not disturb your worship but that there is something you should know. The warriors have brought _that one_ with them. He is in the Lower Caves even now…."

His shoulders stiffened in righteous wrath. I did not even need to use the name that sat like bile on my tongue. I had so worked on him over the summer that he knew full well of whom I spoke.

He twisted to glare at me, and immediately I lowered my head submissively, directing his gaze to where the lamplight played over the first hint of the swell of my breasts.

"This is not to be borne!" he boomed, as self-important as a bullfrog in the marshes. "I shall take order!"

 _A pity you did not do so in the beginning_ , I thought, but as he shuffled gracelessly past me on his knees I gave back reverently, bending to accidentally afford him a little better glimpse into paradise.

Once in the Outer Shrine he rose to his feet. I distracted his attention from my breasts by showing him the quivering grief and anger on my face.

"I can feel my Master's outrage at such an insult to the Shrine!" I cried.

 _Fool._ He took his cues from me like a travelling player learning a part. "It shall not be tolerated. I am Master here. Where is this man?"

"If he _is_ a man," I said – and went on, letting the seeming shock of revelation spread across my face: "Maybe he is an evil spirit!"

The thought plainly frightened him, but he rallied, determined not to be seen to be afraid by one so far below him. "There is nothing for you to be afraid of, child. We are all protected by the most powerful spells here."

"But who knows what such a being can do?" I pressed, my eyes big and anxious, beseeching him to find a safe way out of the danger for us all. "If only there was some way to send him back where he came from!"

When our travels take us by the Chain Lakes, many of the tribe take a hand at fishing. I myself have done so, and so I know the precise moment when a fish takes the bait.

It was all I could do not to whoop as I watched the decision form in his eyes.


	63. Chapter 63: Jessa

He was dying.

For all that any of us could do, he was dying. I could hear the softest beginning of the low sounds in his throat, and I knew the end was near.

I laid down the potions that he could not swallow. They were useless to me now.

"Help me dress him to go to his Gods," I said tonelessly.

He had brought the blue _suit_ with him. Ai! It hung on him now.

I fastened the _buttons_ on the undershirt, and pulled up the _zip_ to its top. He was again LefTenAnt.

A great warrior takes his gold to the pyre, but what need did he have of gold, who had done such deeds that they would be told by the fireside of the People as long as stories passed from mouth to mouth? Surely his Father was waiting to receive him, and the Gods to do him honour. I had already taken the pin from his cloak, and now took the band from his wrist, though I was too blind with tears to do more than thrust them into Atreh's hand. I would keep them, though all the world said me nay.

I did not hear those who came in. I did not hear the shouting. I did not hear anything; I was listening to the slow, harsh measure of his breathing, which soon would cease.

Atreh lifted him. Still he breathed. I did not question. I simply listened.

We carried him out of the cave. Bihiv had been at my shoulder, but he walked away in silence to the horse lines. Malcolm should go to his ancestors astride his horse, as befitted the warrior he was.

There were those who tried to forbid us entering the Sacred Cave, but I did not hear them. I have been told this, but I do not know. I was simply listening.

There was flame-light. He was still breathing. The echoes magnified it.

I would have gone with him, without a word or a look or a glance behind me, but the duty of a Healer is to the living. And within me his babe was living, the sacred charge with which he had entrusted me. Was his child never to know the rush of sunshine and cloud-shadow across the Plains, never to hear the song of a skylark rising, never to cry out as I had done in the throes of love? I could not purchase my own happiness at such a cost. I must let him go, though I did not know how I should endure it.

Atreh looked at me across his body. His voice was the only other thing I could hear now, in all the world. "Jessa, forget them all. No matter how this has come about, I feel in my heart that it is ordained by the WolfRider.

"You and I are sending Malcolm home. Do you know anything of how he called to his Gods?"

He had shown me, once. It had seemed to me that he had not much cared for handling the things that belonged to his old life, but he had seen my curiosity.

I slipped my hand into the pocket where he kept it. It was still there, gleaming metallic in the lamplight. It opened obediently, just as it had done for him.

I pressed the button he had touched with his thumb. I would have told his Gods all that he was and all that he had done, but I thought they knew already. All that I held in my heart regarding him I would tell his child, and no other.

It shifted a little under my finger. A tiny, winking red light on the panel above it now shone steadily. It would light him on his journey.

I restored it to its place.

As Atreh lowered him I leaned over his shoulder, holding one lax hand to feel for the last time the callouses on it.

He opened his eyes. I swear by Bracu, he opened them and knew me. Across his grey mouth the faintest shadow of a smile bade me farewell.

And then he vanished through the mist, and my world came to an end.


	64. Chapter 64: Makia

_Triumph!_

I drank it to the full as Jessa crumpled into Atreh's arms. It was all I could do not to shout aloud, but instead I mirrored Lyassai's look of one who has seen a distasteful but necessary task performed.

I even managed to hold it as I walked back to the cave, ignoring those who asked me for news. Every last trace of my enemy's existence should be disposed of. Even the rags he had worn.

Not troubling to hide my disgust at the filthy garment in which he had been clothed, I picked it up to throw it into the fire. She should not have even this, to remind her. I would leave her nothing but ashes. Soon, when opportunity offered, I would arrange for a potion to be slipped into her drink, and presently she would not have so much as the child to remember him by.

As my hand closed on it, I felt something in the pocket. Maybe it was something I could keep for myself, a memento of my triumph.

A small leather pouch. Doubtless it contained some small trumpery thing he had valued. Whatever it was, it would be mine now.

I slipped my finger inside it, and was rewarded by the sharp prick of whatever it contained. Biting back a yelp of vexation, I withdrew my finger and glared at what now stood embedded in it. They were vicious, and had sunk so deeply that a few drops of blood flowed when I drew them out.

Thorns! Of all the useless things to keep. They were nothing to me, as he was nothing, as Jessa was nothing.

I threw them into the fire, and smiled.


	65. Chapter 65: Dolim

My lieutenant – my somewhat _chastened_ lieutenant – came to me with the news just as I was preparing to interview our prisoner again and see if she'd come to her senses in the meantime.

Not that I believed Humans actually had any sense, but there was no harm in trying. I knew how protective females could be over their broods – I'd had to break my daughter's arm before she'd let me see that useless weakling of a grandson she'd hatched – and even a feeble primate must have some kind of maternal instinct.

"Another Human?" I scowled at him.

He nodded, the colours on his scales shifting apprehensively. "The S12 patrol picked up the signal, Commander. He was in a Trellium mine the Humans investigated – he must have been left there for some reason, maybe as a punishment?

"His communicator's emergency beacon had been activated. He was badly injured – very badly injured. But apparently the captain of the patrol ship thought he might be useful, and the medic on board managed to give him emergency treatment. Enough so he didn't die," he added hurriedly, reading my displeasure at the thought of effort and resources being expended on a Human.

I was about to give the order for the wretch to be shoved out of the nearest airlock without more ado when the thought occurred to me that this unknown male Human might actually come in _very_ useful. It was unlikely that he could be other than from the Earth ship, though I'd have to look into how he'd come to be so far from its present position; that patrol had been in an area they'd passed through months ago, though thanks to the grid search pattern they'd worked in it wasn't so far from where we were now. That being so, he and the female would be known to one another. If she didn't care about her own well-being, she might care about his. And he would undoubtedly feel a masculine instinct to protect her, especially when he discovered she was breeding.

Interesting possibilities opened up….

"Transmit our position and tell them to bring him to me. Unharmed," I growled. It went against the grain to utter the word in connection with one of the despised Humans, but it wasn't as though the adjective was immutable. It could change. And would, the second he'd outlived his usefulness.

The female could be left to sweat a little longer.


	66. Chapter 66: Reed

I hardly dared open my eyes in case the pain came back.

I couldn't be conscious. I simply _couldn't._ Because the last time I remembered anything, I'd felt as though virtually the whole of my body had been one huge area of pain, centred on my abdomen which had taken the brunt of the impact of what had presumably been part of Briai's horse. After which I'd passed out fairly quickly, and that was the last thing I remembered with any clarity, though I gingerly traced disjointed snapshots of cold and hunger and confusion, and Jessa bending over me…

I _wasn't_ the snivelling coward my father thought me. I snapped my eyes open, half

expecting to see the roof of a tent above me.

What I saw was so foreign I simply couldn't process it at first. It was flat. Absolutely flat.

What kind of a tent roof was this…?

Then it dawned on me. It wasn't a tent roof at all. It was a ceiling. Made of metal. Like the walls. Also metal. And the door. Metal.

No windows. Lighting was provided by a narrow strip in the ceiling with a tube behind it.

The Others. Had they captured me, and brought me back to their city for interrogation?

For certain I wasn't with the People any more. They could never have even _imagined_ a room like this, let alone constructed one.

I tried to move, and found I couldn't.

I was lying on a bed – rather a large bed, and not a very comfortable one, which reminded me far too much of the beds in Sickbay. Also like the beds in Sickbay, it had restraints, though the points at which these were set suggested they'd been designed to immobilise rather large patients. Some adjustment had been necessary to make them fit me, but whoever had done it had done a good job; I was quite effectively immobilised.

So. Prowling around being out of the question, at least for the moment, I'd have to see what my other senses could provide me. At least when I could get my mind to concentrate on anything much other than the realisation that I was awake – really and truly awake – and _not_ feeling that I'd had half my flesh torn off before being dropped from a great height straight on to the top of the warp engine.

Until you've been in that much pain, you don't understand how wonderful it feels not to be in any at all. The utter euphoria of being able to even brace against the restraints without wanting to scream in agony was like having downed a bottle of champagne in one go straight into an empty stomach. A woozy feeling when I lifted my head suggested I was fairly well dosed up with pain-killers, but I certainly wasn't going to complain about that. Admittedly I was a long way from feeling a hundred per cent – there were plenty of small aches and pains still in residence, plus my old familiar friend nausea just waiting to remind me of its existence – but in comparison to what I'd been before, I was practically _fizzing._

You're supposed to be a Tactical Officer, man. Do some bloody Tactical Officering!

I quietened myself. _Cat at a mousehole._

Sight: No more information.

Sound: Nothing, except a hum that was so faint I was hardly even sure I was hearing it.

But it sounded like some kind of engine.

Touch: The metal frame of the bed beneath me was vibrating to the same almost infinitesimal frequency.

Smell: nothing identifiable. Traces of … the bitter catch of it in my throat suggested _antiseptic_ , but that could have been just a connection suggested by the Sickbay theme. As best I could, I lowered my head to sniff my uniform, and caught familiar, comforting smells. Horses. Wood-smoke.

 _Jessa._

Christ. Jessa! Was she here somewhere too? Had they captured her? Were they…

I forgot all about _taste._ I started yelling. I wanted attention, I wanted _answers_. I wanted Jessa to be safe. I wanted to know she wasn't being gang-raped somewhere, screaming for me to rescue her.

More disjointed images in my head. The chiefs' tent, and the rim of a drinking horn bumping against my teeth. Words I could barely hear: _Victorious_ and _losses_ and _wounded_ and _recover. Jessa_ , but I was so cold, so bloody cold, I hadn't been this cold in the fucking Shuttlepod, and I was terrified that if I coughed my stomach would explode. They took my clothes off and put cold stuff on my skin that was already fucking freezing, and all I could think of was that lying there mewing like a half-drowned kitten was _conduct unbecoming an officer…_

The opening of the door caught me in mid-yell. I whipped my head aside, expecting to see black armour, even – I was that far out of it – with a head on top of it that had no face at all….

Once again I was so blanked out that it was a few seconds before my brain managed to present me with a coherent picture. And then it was constructed with the help of a picture Phlox had put together and shown us as we first entered the Expanse: a picture of an alien with scaly skin and lizard-like eyes, his body encased in hooped armour. The appearance of the armour had been reconstructed from what remained on the pilot of the downed probe, the body from the epithelial cells retrieved from his corpse.

The data had been enough to provide hints, no more. Enough to populate the doctor's physiometric profile, which hadn't been all that far out. But the armour was similar enough for me to have no doubt at all that I was looking at my first Xindi of the species that had manned the probe sent to Earth.

It wasn't the world's most reassuring realisation to have when you were tied down on a bio-bed. Especially when the Xindi in question is looking down at you like you're something he dragged out of a specimen jar after twenty years or so soaking in poor-quality formaldehyde.

So many things crashed through my mind in that moment that I despaired of ever being able to sort any of them out. Primary among them was the realisation that somehow, by some miracle, I was back in my own world. This was a cell, that was a Xindi, and I was a prisoner.

I'm not sure whether joy or horror was uppermost, and it immediately occurred to me that Jessa and everything else must have been just figments of my hallucinating brain – maybe I'd been comatose? Right now, however, I didn't have time or attention for any of the payback that _that_ little lot was going to involve. I had to find out a) what I was doing here and b) what the situation was and c) what this chap had in mind for me. Not to mention e) where the ship was and f) how I was going to get back to her.

 _If_ there was still a ship to get back to.

 _('You're a regular Grim Reaper, Malcolm, you know that…?')_

Bloody Yanks and their treacly optimism.

I didn't want him to be dead. Dear God, I didn't want any of them to be dead. I didn't want to be the last Human, a Xindi trophy kept alive to gloat to over Humanity's downfall.

The last thing I could remember – the last thing in this world, at any rate – was falling down that bloody mine when the anomaly hit. Maybe _Enterprise_ had been attacked before I could be rescued and I'd been taken prisoner, maybe I'd been abandoned and a passing Xindi ship had found me. Maybe I'd been a prisoner all this time (how _much_ time?), maybe they'd interrogated me, subjected me to all sort of psych-tests, and that was why I remembered all that crazy stuff about Jessa and Atreh and The Others, and Christ it was so realistic but it couldn't possibly be true…

"Get up, Human," he snarled (I doubted he spoke fluent English, so he was probably using some kind of UT device fitted to his armour), and brandished something that was undoubtedly some kind of pulse rifle, if I knew one when I saw one. Not that I'd seen one of this design, and I'd rather have liked a closer look, but I supposed he wouldn't let me even if I asked him nicely.

'Get up', indeed. I rattled the restraints a bit and gave him a 'Houston, we have a problem' look. Idiot.

He punched a control on the wall in a way that suggested the replacement rate for technical hardware around here was probably fairly high, and the locks snapped loose.

I sat up rather gingerly, discovering in the process that I had quite a lot more aches and pains than I'd thought; fortunately none of them seemed particularly terminal at that moment, though a deep ache in my belly suggested I'd better be a bit tactful about what sort of stresses I put on it, and I couldn't quite manage to stand upright.

Whatever system the rifle operated on, it was now trained very definitely on me. And I was really, really keen _not_ to find out the hard way how it worked. Though that didn't stop me from unobtrusively evaluating his armour to see where the weak points might be, just in case that knowledge might come in handy at any juncture. If he gave me a chance I was ready, willing and determined to take it.

The rifle muzzle indicated that I should precede him out of the room. This was definitely a Good Thing. Out of the room meant I Was Going To Get Information. And Information was something of which I was desperately in need at that particular moment in time. Even if it was Bad News, at least it would give me some kind of anchorage in the world, which just then seemed to be a place in which I was as lost and helpless as a leaf in a whirlpool.

He marched me down a couple of corridors, all of them bland and sterile-looking. Finally we got to the door he evidently wanted, because he pressed the chime on the panel beside it – much more respectfully than he'd treated the restraints control, it must be said.

"The prisoner has emerged fully from sedation, Commander," he said deferentially.

'Sedation.' _Bastards._ But how long had I been sedated? What did they want of me?

I was Section-trained. Whatever they wanted, I'd give them a fucking hard time getting it.

I knew they wouldn't have got much out of me while I'd been under. The Section have nice little procedures for putting a stop to that route. For about a fortnight after the treatment I hadn't even dreamed, and I'd woken morning after morning convinced I was going round the bend. When the dreams finally returned I had so many I woke up the next morning practically pissing myself with fright; presumably my circuitry had found some way around the blockers and was now clearing the logjam.

Not sure I was back to 'normal', but then in my part of the Section nobody really minds if you aren't.

"Come," said a gravelly voice from inside.

I rolled my shoulders a bit. Set my teeth. Did all the sort of things with which you prepare yourself to face the firing squad.

Then the door opened, and I was pushed through it.


	67. Chapter 67: Sato

It's amazing what a little R&R can do for you.

I'd managed to remember another three dialects that had interesting variations on 'Go to hell', and when Dolim repeated his demand for my co-operation I actually had the courage to spit them in his face.

Not that I was feeling brave. They'd strapped me down in the chair by then, and the interrogators were standing by. I was under no illusions as what was going to come next. All I could hope was that I'd manage to keep enough control to resist their demands.

And that wasn't going to be easy. Actually, it was going to be hell.

Dolim didn't respond. For a moment longer he hung over me like a thundercloud, and then he straightened up. "I've no wish to be _inhumane_ , at least before I have to," he said, his voice unctuous. "We have one more … avenue of persuasion to explore. I'm sure you'll decide to be reasonable when you see it."

He walked to the comm unit on the wall and barked an order.

'Fetch it'. Not particularly informative, and not very reassuring either.

There was a couple minutes' wait, while he looked at me with the air of someone who's holding a Royal Flush and is about to set it down on the table.

Then the buzzer, and the words from outside: words that included _prisoner_ and _sedation._

My heart lurched. _Enterprise_ had been attacked, and some of the crew had never been accounted for; it had been assumed that they'd been sucked into space when the hull depressurized. What if that hadn't happened to all of them? What if one of them had somehow been captured instead? Held, and tortured? Who knew what Reptilians would do to a prisoner who wasn't useful to them as I could be?

I braced myself for the sight of someone who I'd thought floating frozen and lifeless in space. I hadn't really had time to mourn, but in a crew of only eighty-three who've served together for three years, everyone on board knows everyone else. It was only which one of those I'd thought lost…

A body in a blue Starfleet jumpsuit was pushed through the door, a guard following close behind. I caught a glimpse of beard as he staggered forward and almost fell. His hair was ragged, as though someone had trimmed it with a pair of hedge cutters. Only one or two men on board grew beards; I tried frantically to think which of the missing had been among them.

He recovered, and straightened up.

I thought I was going to pass out.

He was thin, and his always pale skin was white under the beard. He was hunched over, and looked deathly sick. His face had what looked like a newly-healed scar across one cheek. But it was Malcolm: the man for whose death I'd grieved for months, who I'd believed lost forever in that damned trellium mine.

A blissful reunion it was not. There was absolute horror in his face was he stared back at me, his eyes dilating as he took in the bulge under my coverall. "Hoshi," he whispered, obviously as aghast as I was – if for different reasons.

"So you do know each other," Dolim almost purred. "This makes everything _so_ much simpler.

"Or more complicated," he added, gesturing to the interrogators, who closed in from either side of me as Malcolm's guard grabbed him from behind. "That depends on which of you least enjoys watching the other suffer."

Their biggest mistake was in thinking one guard was enough to deal with _Enterprise_ 's tactical officer. Pale and bedraggled and bearded Malcolm might be, but he was still a martial arts expert.

There was a short, brisk sequence of events, and then Dolim was glaring at the business end of the guard's rifle while a pair of icy gray human eyes stared at him from the other end of it. The original owner was lying on the floor, out for the count from a smart smack on the back of the head with the butt of it. "Tell them to let her go."

"What makes you think you'll get away if I do?" sneered Dolim. "Your ship is helpless. You've nowhere to go. Nobody will be coming to rescue you. Best be sensible and co-operate while I'm still willing to ask nicely. Because this is the last time I will."

"We'll take our chance of that. Give the order or I'll blow your bloody head off."

Dolim clearly saw the finger tightening around the trigger. With a vicious gesture he did as he was told.

I don't think I've ever been as relieved as I was then, as I felt the cuffs around my wrists and ankles spring free. I leaped out of the chair. I wanted to grab Malcolm and kiss the daylights out of him for not being dead – shortly before slapping him into the middle of next week for making me believe for so long that he _was_ – but even in the turmoil I was in right then I knew that was not the best thing to do. Kissing and slapping would have to wait till later, along with the story of where the heck he'd been all this time. And, of course, a whole lot of discussion over the fact that he was about to become a father.

"Sit in the chair."

If a glare could have killed, Malcolm would have dropped dead to the floor. Unfortunately for Dolim, it didn't. And the jerk of the rifle muzzle said that the man at the other end of it wasn't going to wait indefinitely.

He tramped across to the chair and sat in it.

The muzzle twitched towards the interrogators. "Secure him."

Apparently they were conditioned to obey orders, though they sure didn't look as though they relished the job. From the look Dolim gave them as they complied, he probably wouldn't take that as an excuse once they freed him again.

The rifle beam blasted the mechanism on the outside of each cuff. Apparently it also scorched the outside of the prisoner's fists too. Maybe it was just because Malcolm wasn't familiar with the weapon; he was usually a good shot.

There again, maybe it wasn't.

If he was anything but a Starfleet officer he'd just have killed all three of them. I saw him check the rifle, but presumably there wasn't anything that looked like a 'stun' setting – or maybe he just didn't have time to test it. As it was, he looked at them and then he looked at me, clearly weighing his options before – being a Starfleet officer – he took the stupid, honorable one.

A third blast took out the comm unit on the wall. Then Malcolm punched the door control and gestured to me. "As soon as I've checked the coast's clear – out."

I didn't need telling twice.

With great caution, he peered around the door. Clearly the corridor was empty, for he dived out into it, flattening himself against the opposite wall before gesturing me to follow.

"Do you have any idea of the layout of this place?" he asked, waiting till the door closed again before aiming a final shot at the control panel on the wall, frying it. "Are we on a ship?"

"A Reptilian ship," I replied, trying not to betray how shocked I was that he didn't even know that. "I don't know anything about it. Malcolm, they – they've got the Weapon. It's ready. They want to use it against Earth. All they need is the launch codes."

"So who has those?" he demanded, pushing me along in what he presumably thought was the right direction – though we certainly couldn't stay where we were for long, because already the muffled shouts from inside the room were audible to any passer-by. Maybe he was already regretting not killing everyone in there, but however much of a good idea it would have been I could understand that with all his antiquated English code of honor he'd have found it almost impossible to murder three prisoners in cold blood.

"They have. But they're encrypted. They can't break the protection."

His glance was as shrewd as ever, for all that his eyes were over-bright, probably with fever. "So that's what you're doing here."

"They kidnapped me," I said bitterly as we paused at a junction to check the coast was clear. "The ship was in the battle. We took a hit – I think it was to one of the nacelles. Then – I just found myself over here."

"A battle?" I hadn't thought he could actually get any paler, but he managed it. Still, he lost no time in guiding us down another corridor – looking, at a guess, for any control rooms. "Were there any casualties?"

So much had happened since we'd 'lost' him. Right now I wasn't sure if this was the time and the place to tell him. He looked so frail and thin that it might be a blow he couldn't take, finding out how many of the crew were dead.

"You'll have to debrief with the captain," I said, taking refuge in the procedures laid down in the Regulations – normally his bible, and as such hopefully a comfort to him.

"The captain's still OK, then?"

"He's still with us." I wasn't totally sure whether the term 'okay' actually applied to Jonathan Archer in any way anymore, but it seemed disloyal to say so. A narrow glance said that he'd noted the careful phrasing of my response, nevertheless.

Our luck had held this far. Unfortunately, it chose that particular moment to turn on us.

The corridor bent sharply just ahead, and around it marched a detachment of Reptilian soldiers, guns at the ready.

Malcolm let out a word that definitely wasn't befitting a Starfleet officer, and sprayed rifle fire across them as we turned to run. A couple of them dropped, but there were too many; return fire lanced around us as we fled back to the junction.

"Which way?" I gasped as we reached it.

"Don't know," he panted. He was bent over a little, his free hand pressed to his stomach; and normally such a short run wouldn't even have had him short of breath, let alone breaking out in a sweat. "Eeny, meeny – this way!"

 _Eeny, meeny._ For god's sake. I wanted to laugh as we set off down another featureless corridor. It sounded such a totally weird thing for him to say. _Enterprise_ 's tactical officer, reduced to a child's rhyme deciding which escape route to take.

We wouldn't evade capture indefinitely. Within moments I could hear footsteps behind us, and voices roaring out the order to halt.

Malcolm undoubtedly didn't speak Xindi, but the command hardly needed translation. He snarled a reply that was pure Anglo-Saxon as we dodged around another corner.

Our luck had changed again. Noise hit me like a wall. In front of us there was a vast space, a well in the structure of the ship we were on. The noises from all the machinery around it echoed and re-echoed in it, magnified so many times that it made my ears ache.

"The pulse chamber." His voice was soft, awed, horrified, as the two of us stood taking in the size of it. "Hoshi, we're _in the weapon._ "

"They're going to catch us." The footsteps behind us were getting louder. The interrogators had showed me the things they'd put inside my head if I refused to co-operate, the parasites that would destroy my capacity to resist; it wasn't just the fear of what I could tell them that made me almost wail with terror. "Malcolm, they're going to make me break the encryption! I won't be able to stop them!"

He looked at me hard. I saw the words of encouragement die on his lips. I'd had the basic Starfleet training in resisting interrogation, but this was a whole different ball game.

He knew that, even better than I did.

After only a second he reached out and took my hand.

It was a long way down to the bottom of that well.

"It doesn't hurt till you hit the floor," he said softly. "And from this height, I don't think we'll know much about it."

I swallowed. I wanted to say there was a way out for him, but there wasn't.

The few steps till the edge seemed to take a very long time and be over in a split second. There was only a low barrier, presumably to stop anything rolling over the lip by accident.

"I love you, Malcolm." There: at least I'd finally told him.

He kissed me briefly, and gazed intensely for half a second at what we hadn't had time to discuss. Now there never would be time. "On three."

"One – two –"


	68. Chapter 68: Dolim

It took longer than I'd hoped, but we got there. Primates are extraordinarily resilient, it seems. Stubborn, too, but open to reasoned persuasion. Eventually.

It was just as well for those fool guards that they'd managed to stun both of the prisoners before they could jump. I imagine they knew quite well that I wouldn't have been … pleased.

I enjoyed taking a little revenge on the puny Human male when they brought him round. Give him his due, for a primate he was tough, but he was already injured – and I soon found the tender spots. Though I don't think anything I did to him hurt him worse than having to watch my surgeons inserting the parasites into his companion.

Naturally I couldn't kill him. Not for the time being. Not when the noises we made him make acted as such a useful accelerant for the action of the parasites inside her brain. Every time she slowed down or hesitated or even just looked confused, we increased the pressure.

Simple, when you know how.

I'd have stopped to enjoy the show, but I had other things to attend to. The Builder was infuriatingly vague, seeming almost impatient with my summons, and it took all my self-control to maintain an attitude of respect, though from the occasional sharp glances I got I suspected my frustration and fury were still apparent. If they were as powerful as they claimed, why did they leave so much to us? Sometimes I almost felt as if they held us in … contempt.

Of course, that was absurd. Their whole aim was the protection of the Xindi. And how much better off everyone would be when the Reptilians were in control. I'd toss a few bones to the Insectoids, of course, but the real power would be where it should have been all along.

With me.

First, however, we had to deal with those miserable Humans. And now I had the third launch code, safely in the data disc in my claws, the time for _that_ had come. First you destroy the nest, and then you have all the time in the world to hunt down the rest. I'd burn out every last infestation of them, to the end of the Galaxy if I had to. The two prisoners were still alive, and safely aboard my ship; their usefulness was by no means over. They would have endless information about wherever more Humans might be found, and they would give me all of it until the very last was found and destroyed. Then, and not before, my job would be done, and I'd take pleasure in being the one to extinguish the two last feeble flickers of their species. In person.

The discs containing the first and second codes were waiting ready. The technicians in the launch control room were standing by. My ship was shadowing us, ready to transport me off the moment I gave the command. Then it was merely a case of accompanying the Weapon to Earth, where the launch sequence could be initiated the instant we were in range.

History was about to be rewritten.


	69. Chapter 69: Hayes

_'Did you try hard enough to find Lieutenant Reed?'_

The question was still in her eyes, even though we'd officially made our peace a few hours ago. As much as it could ever be made. And I thought she was kind of relieved about that; because this was the end of the road, and we _were_ a team, however long and hard the road had been to get there.

Now, however, I could finally answer it. Maybe not for Reed – that page had been turned long ago – but the captain was determined to retrieve Ensign Sato. And this time I wasn't going to turn and walk away in defeat, empty-handed. Whatever it took, I'd get her back. Even if it was just a dead body, I'd bring her back to the ship.

 _"T'Pol to Major Hayes."_ The call through the comm unit startled me as I went to step up to the transporter platform to join the rescue team.

"Hayes here, Sub-commander," I said, thumbing the button.

I could have sworn she paused before she spoke. And definitely when she _did_ speak, there was something … weird … about her voice. "There are two Human bio-signs aboard the enemy ship, Major."

Gomez' eyebrows lifted.

"Thank you for the intel, Ma'am. Do we have any update on their position?"

"There is still too much interference, but the indications are that they are close together, somewhere on the first three decks. When you retrieve them, bring them back to the beam-in point. Take no unnecessary chances. T'Pol out."

Everyone in my team had heard. I caught the nods that understood exactly how our plans had changed. There were only three of us transporting over, but though I hesitated now over whether to summon additional personnel the clock was ticking, and I still believed the three of us should be able to handle two possible casualties; above all, I wanted the greatest strength possible left on the ship.

We'd rehearsed scenarios like this over and over again in the eight long months we'd waited for _Enterprise_ to close with the enemy we'd been brought to fight. Now they were like a weapon that fitted into my hand as though it was part of it.

I almost leaped on to the transporter, my rifle armed and ready for business.

Behind the console, Gomez' face was the last thing I saw as the ship faded around me. And I thought, not for the first time either, that it was a very pretty face indeed.

=/\=

Our scanners worked a whole lot better once we were on board the Reptilian vessel. At a guess, most of the interference that blocked _Enterprise_ 's scanners was part of a protective shield – even though she was massively outgunned by the enemy ship, they undoubtedly didn't want anyone finding out anything more than they could help.

As far as 'luck' went, it could have been worse. The two bio-signs were on the deck above us and a few hundred meters along. The schematics that had been transmitted to us had allowed me to fine-tune everything in my mind to the point where I almost felt I'd walked every damn corridor in the place, and I gestured confidently towards the access ladders, one just to our right and another about twenty meters away on the left. There was a turbo-lift nearby, but the enemy would certainly know by now that the ship had been boarded, and no way was I going to put any of my party into what could so simply and effectively become a cage.

It was only a matter of time before the crew marshaled to deal with us. I led Kelly up one access ladder, Kemper took the other. Normally you don't split your forces, but it would be all too easy to keep one party pinned down trying to emerge from such a tiny hatch as these had.

My foresight was justified. A plasma bolt zipped past my face as I cautiously peeped out of the hatchway on the deck above. But a few seconds later the sound of a blast and a grunt and a body falling on to the deck encouraged me to put my head out again, to see Kemper's face with a grin on it following his rifle out of the hatchway beyond the Reptilian lying on the deck.

This wasn't organized resistance, just an isolated guard reacting to the intruder alert that was now blaring down the corridors. Soon – probably _very_ soon – things would get a heck of a lot hotter than this.

I consulted my scanner again, and led the boarding party quickly and cautiously towards the area it indicated. We encountered a few more isolated guards, and managed to dispose of them after an exchange of fire. But it was definitely getting hotter, and it was going to be really tough getting out of here if Sato and the other guy (or girl) weren't able to walk on their own two feet, and preferably handle one of the spare guns we'd brought along.

Shit. We'd manage _somehow_ , I told myself resolutely. I wasn't going to look into Em Gomez' accusing eyes again and see a failure reflected there. Or my own mirror, come to that.

"Pay dirt." This was the source of the signal. A locked door, probably a cell. My rifle found the combination of the lock in no time at all.

Inside, darkness, and the smell of blood and sweat, and ragged breathing. And before I could even draw breath, a body hit me, exploding out of the cell to take me square in the midriff. "BASTARD!"

It bowled me over, while on either side of me the team's rifles swung to point at the frenzied figure in a blue uniform trying to punch hell out of me. The guy was raving at the top pitch of his lungs, his voice so hoarse and cracked I couldn't even identify the accent as English. "LEAVE HER ALONE YOU FUCKING BASTARDS, LEAVE HER ALONE!"

In hindsight I wasn't too impressed by the time it took my team to haul him off me. Even with both of them holding on to him he continued to struggle and swear like a mad thing, while I picked myself up off the deck and stared.

I just _stared._

We _all_ stared.

He was thin – hell, he wasn't just thin, he was _emaciated_. He was dirty. He was wounded, battered, with one eye swollen half-shut. He had a beard, and a scar on one cheek. His hair looked as if it had been cut off in lumps by a blindfolded barber.

But it was Reed.

It took him a minute to get hold of reality. Mid-yell, his eyes finally focused on me and his curses died into this funny little croaking sound. He had to swallow once or twice and lick his lips before he managed to get out, in a voice that shook: "H-Hayes?"

There wasn't time for explanations; there wasn't time for anything. Certainly not for arguing, and although I could see by the way he was hardly able to hold himself upright that he would be no use with a gun, I was quite sure he'd try to contest that fact. In the state he was in I couldn't guarantee he was even rational enough to just do as he was told and let himself be rescued. In fact, he would be far easier to handle if he was unconscious, so I calmly switched the settings on my rifle and dropped him where he stood.

He could put me on a charge later, if we both got out of this alive.

Sato was inside, unconscious. I hoisted her over my shoulder. I hadn't forgotten about the baby (if it was still alive by this time), but that was the only way I could carry her and still keep my hands free to use my rifle.

It wasn't going to be easy, negotiating those access-tubes carrying two unconscious Fleeters. But then, we hadn't signed up for this mission to have an easy time.

We got down in one piece and teamed up again. Kelly was carrying Reed. Kemper looked at his scanner and gestured. Enemy approaching in force, from the left.

I commed _Enterprise_ , requesting beam-out. The captain said there'd been a malfunction with the transporter. I caught a grim, rueful gleam among the team: _fucking squid machines._ But I knew – we all knew – that over there they'd be fighting like mad to get it fixed as fast as they could.

We were coming under some heavy fire by the time Tucker's voice came through the comm, telling me they could only take two out at a time.

 _The leader leaves last._ I handed Sato to Kemper, who'd been hit but indicated he could manage. I'd have to lay down covering fire.

The two of them dissolved. I hoped Gomez would regard that as payment of the interest on the debt I owed. The capital would be following along shortly.

Enemy reinforcements arrived. The bulkheads protecting the last three of us weren't particularly good shelter now we were being shot at from two directions. I commed _Enterprise_ again; I couldn't bear the idea of defeat now, not now, not when Fate had given me this chance out of the blue to make amends. "I could use a change of scenery!"

"Stand by, Major."

Kelly and Reed dissolved. I wished I could have materialized on the transporter pad with them, just to see the expressions. Maybe there'd still be the backwash of the shockwave, when I got there. At any rate I knew exactly how his crewmates would feel when they realized who I'd brought back from the dead.

 _Here comes your capital, Em._

A couple shots came horribly close. The bastards knew there was only one of us left. They didn't want to let all five of us escape; they wanted _some_ kind of a result.

I hugged the bulkhead while the lances pried around me. I could feel the burn of the heat of them. I got off a few shots of my own, though, and I was pretty sure one or two of the enemy knew about it.

How long could resetting that fucking buffer _take?_

Suddenly I felt the familiar tingle. I still hated it. The first time I'd used it I'd gone into the shower afterwards and examined my whole body to make sure it had all been put back together again in the right order. But now, it was quite simply salvation.

Across the corridor from me a Reptilian dived for cover behind the body of one of his brothers we'd dropped already. As he went, he fired off a shot, probably more to throw off my aim than in any hope of hitting me.

He was a better shot than he probably ever knew. Suddenly the tingling was suffused by this goddamn-awful pain high in my left shoulder. I'd have screamed with the agony of it but you can't breathe when you're in the transporter; your cells are being turned into electronic impulses or whatever the fuck they do with you, and there was just me and the tingling and the pain for what felt like an eternity before the world went _click_ and the tingling started to fade and the pain started to get stronger and stronger, and then out of the hubbub around the bodies lying by the transporter console somebody looked up at me and their relief suddenly turned into horror.

I heard _'Phlox!'_ and then the world went out.


	70. Chapter 70: Muller

I heard the news as soon as _Oberleutnant_ Tucker's voice almost screamed it through the comm system on the Bridge.

 _"He's alive! They found him! He's alive!"_

The _Kapitän_ had been seated in his command chair, but he was the quickest of us all to understand. He stood up, staring through the viewscreen in front of him as though trying to understand how such a thing could possibly be.

 _"Malcolm?"_ he breathed.

"It's him! He's – get Phlox! – Jesus, Cap'n, he's alive. Malcolm! _Malcolm!_ "

The _Kapitän_ sat down again slowly, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair. I could see that he wanted with all his heart to run down and see the miracle for himself, but this was the very worst of times: we were in the midst of the fight for the very survival of Earth, and his place was on the Bridge.

So was mine, come to that. Though I bowed my head and breathed a prayer of thanks to the _Herrgott_ for the miracle for which, after so long, none of us had even dared to hope: that Malcolm Reed had not, after all, died in that mine, and was restored to us. Alive, and surely not beyond help; for certainly that was what the _Oberleutnant_ 's words suggested.

"Hoshi?"

I thought he was almost afraid to ask, lest this be too much good fortune to hope for.

It was the _Doktor_ who answered him. "Ensign Sato has been injured, Captain, but I am about to escort her to Sickbay. I will–"

In the background there was another cry, and the sound of confusion.

"Trip, what's happening?" _Kapitän_ Archer asked sharply. He glanced at me. "Get a security team down there!"

I had been waiting for just such a command. It took me only a moment to give the orders.

It was torture, sitting and waiting while we could only listen helplessly to the voices and sounds. Finally, the _Oberleutnant_ came back to the comm unit. "Hayes has been shot, Cap'n," he said breathlessly. "Phlox has taken all three of 'em back to Sickbay."

"Tell him to keep me posted." He sat back in his chair _,_ and it was clear that he was fighting to fit such a happening into his world. The _Leutnant_ had been accepted and reported as dead; his family and friends had mourned him. And now, beyond hope, he was restored to us. Surely, I thought, such a thing could not be other than the luckiest of omens. Not that I believed in such things, of course; but anything that would bring such a surge of incredulous joy to the crew as this was worth a hundred thousand four-leaved clovers.

By the gleam that began to grow in my _Kommandant'_ s eyes, he was thinking much the same thing.


	71. Chapter 71: Gomez

It was true. He was alive.

I would not believe it until I saw it for myself.

At first I could hardly recognize who it was lying there with a saline drip hooked up to each hand. He looked more like some dirty, scarred _vagabundo_ from the back streets of Caňada Real than the officer I had grown to love and respect so much. But it was indeed he, and though Doctor Phlox was fully occupied elsewhere when I arrived, Crewman Markovic told me that although Lieutenant Reed's injuries were extensive and some of them were severe, Phlox's initial assessment was that there was nothing wrong with him – physically at least – that time and the doctor's skills could not put right. In the meantime, he had been stunned by Major Hayes, and there was no point in waking him since he would need to be anaesthetised for surgery as soon as the doctor was free to perform it.

 _'Stunned by Major Hayes'?_ I frowned direfully at that news, pushing to the back of my mind all that was implied by Markovic's careful 'physically at least'. It was by no means, in my opinion, a part of _Comandante_ Hayes' duties to go about the world stunning his senior officers. "And where is the _Comandante_ now?" I asked coldly.

Markovic pointed to the surgery area, cut off from the rest by a privacy curtain. "Phlox is working on him now, Ma'am."

"He was injured?" In an instant my indignation turned to something very different. "How badly injured?"

He shook his head dubiously. "He was bad when they brought him in. But you know how good Doctor Phlox is, Ma'am. If anyone can pull Major Hayes through, it's him."

Instinctively I moved to head towards the privacy curtain, hoping to glean some news from what I could hear within. As I turned, however, I saw Ensign Sato on a bed nearby – Sickbay was so crowded that there were patients even on the floor. She was unconscious or sleeping; her face was grey and shiny with sweat, and there was an ugly wound on each of her temples. I grabbed Markovic before he could move away. "The baby?"

"We don't know yet, Ma'am," he said apologetically. "It seems to be okay, but the ensign's taken a heck of a beating. She could still lose it."

He was plainly a busy man. I let him go. Then I walked to Hoshi's bedside and took her hand. She did not stir.

Hayes. He had not failed me. As I, in so many ways, had failed him.

If he lived I would do better.

If.

Markovic had not sounded optimistic.

"Archer to Phlox." The _capitán_ 's voice from the comm link on the wall was clearly unwelcome. I heard an exclamation behind the privacy curtain, but before I could move to the comm panel and explain that the doctor was busy, Phlox came out, throwing bloodstained gloves into an already overflowing receptacle as he passed it.

I tried not to look at those gloves, or to think what they might mean.

The _capitán_ was demanding that Hoshi be taken to the shuttlebay for transport to Degra's ship.

Phlox was plainly appalled. Hoshi, he said, was stable, but it would not be safe to wake her for at least two hours.

They argued. Finally Phlox had to agree to Hoshi being transferred. He insisted, however, that she should have further treatment, and as his eye fell on me I knew whom he would choose. Not that I was by any means unwilling, even though I had no medical training to speak of; Hoshi was my friend, and the baby she was carrying was as precious to me as if it had been my own. I would _not_ stand idly by and let even the _capitán_ bully and browbeat her.

I think Phlox understood the meaning of my slow smile. His own face was set in anxious lines, but something of his old _centelleo_ returned as he showed me the instruments and instructed me how to use them.

They prepared Hoshi for transfer. She was moved gently to a gurney, and the restraints on it held her firmly in place against any accident.

"Please look after her, Ensign," Phlox said when we finally stood at the Sickbay doors. "After all this time, I'd hate to see all my hard work go to waste."

"I will do my best to preserve all the fruits of your hard work, Doctor," I replied, matching his tone, but knowing very well that he meant so very much more than he said. "If you in your turn will look after _Comandante_ Hayes for me. I have grown used to having him around the place."

These Denobulans! They see romance everywhere, even where it is not. He twinkled. Definitely he twinkled. "I have every reason to believe the good Major will make a complete recovery, Ensign. And when he recovers consciousness, I will tell him how urgently you were enquiring after his health."

Even Lieutenant Reed had always been impressed by the number of bad words I know. I muttered a great many of them beneath my breath as I walked beside the gurney, ignoring the round eyes of the crewman from Exobiology who was pushing it. I refused to admit, even to myself, how very comforted I had been by Phlox's forecast for Hayes' recovery. I concentrated instead on how very mortifying it would be for me if he carried out his threat. And on devising all the defensive tactics I could think of to crush any attempt by a certain _Comandante_ to follow up on any very mistaken ideas he might be given.

But first, I had to protect Hoshi.

And after that – and after whatever else might follow – then we would see.


	72. Chapter 72: Archer

"There is no need to worry about disturbing him, Captain. He is heavily sedated."

Phlox pulled back the privacy curtain and I got my first look at a man I'd thought for months was dead.

For a couple of seconds I actually didn't recognize him. Apart from the hair and beard, and the gash across his cheek, he was so … _gaunt_ , so exhausted-looking. And battered; I could only imagine where he'd been and what he'd endured since we'd …

We'd abandoned him.

 _I'd_ abandoned him.

Trip had told me I was wrong. Even Hayes had tried to persuade me to turn the ship back and look again, and I'd refused. And all the time, Malcolm had still been alive.

How had he survived that fall? How had he lived all this time? How must it have been for him, escaping what I'd thought was his tomb only to find himself alone in the dark on that planetoid, without food or water? How had he coped with the knowledge that we'd just flown off and left him to die? How long had it been before he was found by the Xindi, and what had he suffered since then?

That he _had_ suffered was obvious. They must have starved him as well as beaten him. Phlox had given me a whole list of his injuries, including evidence of some kind of botch job on an internal rupture that would have to be repaired if he was to have any long-term survival prospects. The doc was standing by to start the surgery now Hayes was stable, but I wanted to … wanted to see for myself, just for a moment, before I took off after the Weapon. Not that I didn't believe Trip and the others, but it wasn't they who were to blame for the state he was in.

No, that was all my doing. I'd just left him there. I'd been too eaten up with _the mission_ to spare the time to make sure a faithful officer who'd given me years of loyal service really was dead. Now, I wanted to explain, to apologize … even if I couldn't expect his forgiveness. Though with him out to the wide like this, my apologies would have to wait; and from what the MACO team had reported, they might have to wait quite a long time, because apparently he'd been pretty crazy when he was found.

What must he have thought of us? Of me?

Still more to the point, what would he say when – if – he survived the surgery and found out I'd all-but-ordered Hoshi to abort his child?

She'd defied me. As far as I knew, it was still okay, despite what she'd suffered at the hands of the Reptilians. A man who wasn't a monster would have left her in Sickbay, not had her dragged off to endure more stress that might tip whatever balance her health and that of the child might be teetering on. Unfortunately, the Weapon was on the move and I was a monster, and Hoshi and the baby were just two more potential casualties that I still couldn't afford to care about.

Maybe Malcolm's survival was Fate's way of ensuring that someday I'd face the reckoning. That there would _be_ a reckoning, I had no doubt. Maybe by that time it would be a relief.

Phlox was waiting, pulling on surgical gloves; he'd already donned his mask, and above it his blue eyes were piercing. Beyond him the operating area was all prepared, the trays of instruments gleaming in the bright lights of Sickbay.

"Do your best for him, Doc," I said futilely. Like I thought he wouldn't without being told to.

"In surgery, as in life, Captain, there are no guarantees. And Mister Reed has already suffered a great deal of trauma." He paused. "He may actually be too weak to withstand the surgery. But without it, I'm afraid he has no chance at all of surviving."

At least it didn't occur to me – then – that I'd be safer if he didn't. At least I'd retained that much of my humanity.

"I'll keep my fingers crossed," I answered huskily.

That was all I had time for. The shuttle would be waiting, to take me to Degra's ship.

Endgame was about to begin.


	73. Chapter 73: Tucker

Two hours!

Two hours till we reached the Sphere and – quite possibly – blew ourselves to Kingdom Come trying to blow a hole in its workings.

I knew T'Pol was right. We really _didn't_ have any options. The destruction of the Spheres and the end of their transformation of the Expanse was the bargaining counter the captain had used to buy the Aquatics' agreement to help him destroy the Weapon, and if it took busting the ship into a million little pieces, that was what we had to do.

But those two hours… so much time and so little time, with nothing much to do except wander round the ship and try not to think too much about home and family, or to worry too much about what was going on aboard Degra's ship, which had gone flying off in pursuit of the Weapon.

Okay. I'll admit it. I hadn't gone to Sickbay yet.

I'd been happier than I could ever remember being in my _entire life_ when Kelly put down the 'body' she was carrying and we gently turned the face up to see who it was. I didn't even know who it was going to be, and if she hadn't said the name I'm damned if I'd have recognized him, especially at first. But when I knew … Jesus. I could have danced all over the ship for joy that we'd been wrong, that he was still with us, that we'd gotten him back somehow, it didn't matter how. It didn't matter where he'd been or what he'd done, he was back. I didn't care what he looked like. Phlox would patch him up and after a few weeks he'd be back at his old pad on the Bridge, just like it had happened so many times before.

Well. That was the _theory._ Which presupposed all of us living through this whole Xindi thing, which in itself was a theory that looked less and less likely the longer the whole mess went on.

It was only afterwards that it dawned on me that things weren't nearly that simple anymore.

Matter of fact, as far as Malcolm and me were concerned – as far as Malcolm and me and _Hoshi_ were concerned – things were downright _complicated._

 _Theoretically_ , we hadn't done anything wrong. After all, we'd thought he was dead. And it wasn't even like we'd reeled straight out of his wake and straight into bed. I mean, 'bed' as in 'humping'. It had been weeks.

Months, actually.

We'd thought he was _dead_ , for Chrissakes.

It had been bad enough when it'd been Feezal who'd entangled me in her extramarital activities, or at least done her level best to. It'd taken me all my nerve to broach the subject to Phlox, and _he'd_ taken whatever the Denobulan equivalent might be of the Hippocratic Oath. He wasn't supposed to beat the crap out of his patient, however provoked he was, and technically I _was_ his patient; he was my ship's CMO, and I'd been in Sickbay often enough. The fact that when he found out he was merely disappointed I hadn't taken advantage of the opportunity to broaden my sexual horizons a little merely added insult to injury for all the agonizing I'd done over mentioning it in the first place.

Denobulan ethics give me a headache.

As far as I knew, however, Malcolm hadn't taken any limiting oaths that might be particularly useful in keeping my balls attached when he found out what had happened in his absence. And Feezal hadn't even gotten further than giving me come-and-get-it-big-boy looks. Hoshi and I had….

Yeah. Hoshi. I got the feeling there was a lot of caveman in Malcolm when it came down to the Keep Your Hands Off My Woman If You Want Them Left Attached side of things.

Even if we _had_ thought he was dead.

But those two hours were ticking down and he was lying in Sickbay, and I hadn't even been to see how he was getting on. And T'Pol and I weren't what you'd call on the best of terms right now. Frankly, I was getting really worn out trying to cope with this new 'emotional' side of hers. To give her credit, she'd apologized for it, but I was still conscious of having to tread really carefully around her. I was still hoping that somehow we could salvage 'something' out of … well. Everything that had happened. Whatever. All I knew was that we seemed to be getting on just a little better than we had, and I didn't want to do or say anything that might put that fragile accord in any kind of jeopardy.

Whether this stand-off we seemed to be in would be bearable long-term was a different matter, but then as things stood we didn't seem to be looking at anything at all with the words 'long-term' attached to it.

It was no good. I had to go see him. Even if I … even if the subject of … well, he was supposed to be my best friend, for god's sake. Some best friend he'd think _I_ was, not even having shown my face since they'd brought him on board.

You'd think I had a starring role in front of a firing squad lined up, the way I skulked around Main Engineering trying to find things I ought to be fixing. But what point was there in fixing anything? In, oh, rather _less_ than two hours now, we'd be carrying out a procedure that was guaranteed to fry every goddamned system on the ship. So who was I fooling?

Nobody, that's who.

I finally screwed up my courage to the point where even I couldn't come up with any more excuses, and dawdled my way to Sickbay.

I'd forgotten how many people were still there, needing treatment. It still had beds overflowing into the corridor. Good job Phlox wasn't in the hibernation end of his sleep cycle; he wasn't about to get any shuteye any time soon anyway.

Markovic wasn't even a trained medical technician, he was actually the Quartermaster's assistant, but he'd taken to all this like a duck to water. As soon as I showed my face he pointed me to where Malcolm was lying. Not that I needed much pointing; all I had to do was look for the only guy in the place who looked like a miniature Rasputin.

"Don't expect too much from him yet, sir," Markovic whispered, holding me back for a second. "He's not long out of surgery. He's only just regained consciousness… he'll be drowsy for a while."

They'd cleaned him up some. He'd been washed, and it looked as if someone had at least made an effort to tidy up his hair and beard. But I'm not sure that had helped much. For one thing, it made a jagged scar on his face that much more visible. And before, the dirt and blood had gone some way towards disguising what he _really_ looked like. And as I took in the way he must have been battered, I felt literally queasy. And sick, sick with hate at the bastards who'd done this to him.

I don't think I said anything. I wasn't even sure if he was awake, and if he'd drifted off to sleep again Phlox wouldn't thank me for disturbing him. He looked so utterly exhausted, as though all that quiet energy he'd always possessed had just fallen into itself like a collapsing star.

I just looked at him in silence. My earlier confidence that we could just patch him up now seemed completely naïve. This wasn't some broken arm or minor burn. This was … I didn't have the words for what it was. He was just so changed.

I was just about to turn away when without a flicker his eyes opened. I should have remembered he had the talent for being able to do that. He could move from completely asleep to fully wide awake in half a second if he felt any sense of threat; and hell, with whatever he'd been put through, I couldn't imagine he'd ever feel other than threatened, ever again.

"Trip." It was hardly more than a whisper, but the vague ghost of a smile warmed his eyes. "I wondered…"

"Why I never showed up to check on ya?" I asked, feeling like the heel I was. Though it was unlikely he'd been conscious since he'd been brought home, so he probably hadn't noticed anyway.

"I would never wonder that." His fingers fluttered a little, as though he was hesitating about touching my arm. "They've told me … you've been run off your feet."

If there was ever going to be a time for confessions, now wasn't it. He wasn't just pale, he was practically transparent. Phlox had had to carry out extensive emergency abdominal surgery and mend a broken left arm – which right now was in its protective casing under the covers. He had a couple of serious recent wounds that had apparently been clumsily stitched, as well as a number of smaller ones that seemed to have been left to heal. On top of that he had a list of minor burns, contusions and abrasions that took up several pages of a PADD. Almost as soon as he was in Sickbay he'd had a double blood transfusion. He was badly undernourished, too, and I didn't know how many bags of saline they'd had to run into him before he was no longer so dehydrated it was literally life-threatening.

Cowardly, I just nodded. Time to talk about … other things when he was feeling a heck of a lot better than he was now. "So what were you wonderin' about?"

At first I thought he wasn't going to answer me. He certainly wasn't his usual self at all; he looked odd, haunted. Then, very low, "Wondering if I was truly here." He looked around the room, frowning slightly as though he couldn't see it properly. "It's been such a long time…"

I hesitated. It probably wasn't the right time to ask, but he'd let me know fast enough if he wasn't ready to talk about his captivity yet. "Do you wanna… do you wanna talk about it? What happened to you?"

His eyes came back to me at that. Once again I thought he wasn't going to answer. And then he said, very quickly and with an oddly scared look,"I haven't been able to get to a bathroom. Will you take a look at the top of my right shoulder? I can't move my left arm to get the sleeve up and look for myself…."

Of course he couldn't. It was his left arm that had been broken. The right one had a few dressings on it, but it didn't look too badly damaged.

Still, there was something about the way he'd asked that told me it mattered to him a _lot_. So I didn't argue.

He was wearing the standard Sickbay loose tunic and pants. The tunic's sleeves are short, for comfort and easy access. There was no problem in pushing it up on the right side, careful not to disturb any dressings that might be hidden up there.

There were no dressings. There was just a row of marks that looked like they'd had been carelessly cut into his skin and had blue dye rubbed into them.

/\\_/\

They were obviously old and had healed cleanly. Maybe that's why Phlox hadn't touched them. At a guess he'd thought they could wait for another day; it would probably only be minor surgery to remove them.

"Ah, it's nothing," I said, awkward and embarrassed on his behalf. How he'd hate to have been so clumsily marked.

"Nothing at all?" he asked softly. So softly I could hardly hear him. His eyes held mine, searching for the lie as if he could smell it. For the first time since the conversation started, I thought he was actually there.

"Nothing important. Just a few …. Just a few marks."

There was a half-cup of water on the nightstand beside him. With enormous concentration he lifted it up and tipped out a few drops, making a little pool on the clean surface. "Draw it for me."

Something, I don't know what, said I should make excuses. Pretend there was nothing at all. Invent something, draw some harmless squiggle or a Reptilian glyph, anything rather than tell him what was really there.

But I don't think it would have done any good. I think he already knew what shape my finger was going to trace, in the clean water on the clean nightstand.

I didn't want to look at his face afterwards. But I had to. And once I had, I thought I'd never forget that look I saw on it. That terrible look of grief, of loss.

He was such a private guy I couldn't even imagine what he must have gone through to make him so broken he couldn't even hide it from me. I couldn't imagine what he'd endured, or what the mark meant.

He didn't cry. But he didn't speak again. And when the comm sounded a few minutes later, summoning me to the Bridge, I didn't know whether he was glad or sorry. He didn't say. When I asked if he needed anything, he just shook his head, shut his eyes and turned his face away.

That was the start of everything that meant I couldn't go back to Sickbay for a long time.

But I don't think he'd have wanted me to, anyway.


	74. Chapter 74: Reed

I wasn't completely sure for a long time where I was.

At least, it seemed like a long time. By then, I wasn't sure of anything. It felt like _Enterprise_ , but I was well past pinning any faith on what anything 'felt' like. The whole world just seemed to have turned into something that had no relevance to me, or I to it. I was an actor in the wrong play, and nobody was giving me the right cues. People stared at me, obviously expecting something from me, but I no longer knew what to say.

I'd lost Jessa. There was no way back, even if I'd wanted it. I was a Starfleet officer. How desperately I'd wanted to find my way back to my own world, and now, it seemed, I'd found it. Somehow.

 _Beware what you pray for, says God, for you may get it._

Jessa. The memories were burning, vivid, anguished. It hadn't been a dream. The tribe mark in my shoulder told me that. I'd pulled off the impossible; I'd managed to pull victory out of certain defeat. And in the process, I'd failed the woman who'd fallen in love with me, and left her alone and desolate. Atreh had promised to look after her and Bihiv, so I could take some consolation from that; but I knew all too well, God help me, the calibre of the love she'd chosen to bestow on me.

And if that wasn't enough to bear, I'd lost Hoshi too. When I woke up after surgery I looked around in absolute desperation, and she wasn't there.

I knew what that meant; she'd been interrogated aboard the Xindi ship in the most brutal way, while forced to watch helplessly as the Reptilian bastard in charge took his revenge on me. It was an old Section mantra that _it doesn't matter if you scream, as long as you don't talk_ , and God forgive me, I couldn't stop myself. She'd lost consciousness after she finally broke down and gave them what they wanted – I don't think I've ever felt such hatred or such powerlessness, or wished more fervently that I'd had the sense to shoot the bastard when I had the chance. What would they care if those things they'd put into her brain killed her? And the baby – the _baby!_ – how could it possibly survive?

They'd thrown us into a cell together afterwards, of no further use or interest. I hardly knew where to touch her for fear of causing more damage. I called her name, over and over again, and she didn't answer. She didn't wake up. I don't know how long I sat there in the dark, holding her and praying that somehow she'd come through this alive.

If those prayers had been answered she'd be here, in Phlox's care.

Her absence told me everything. They didn't have to draw me a diagram.

I'm not quite sure what happened next. I can only explain it by saying that nothing seemed to make sense any more. I heard people talking but I couldn't make out the words. It was as though they were at the other side of a pane of thick glass, mouthing at me through it, but all I could hear most of the time was a tinny, senseless buzz. And on my side of it there was a flat calm, in which I floated, very careful not to move or think more than I actually had to because there was this awful fear right at the back of my mind that if I did, there would be consequences that would be more than I could bear.

A part of me knew the people behind the glass were disappointed. I was naturally sorry about this, but it didn't make it any easier to imagine what they wanted.

The hours crept past and became days. Sickbay gradually emptied. People came and stood beside me and looked at me. Now and again they spoke, but they were still at the wrong side of the glass. I couldn't hear what they were saying.

And frankly, I didn't care.

That was before …

… Before _she_ came.

I must have been dozing. I seemed to be dozing a lot these days. Not like me, I'd agree, but then there didn't seem to be much point doing anything else. Nobody needed me to do anything; the world seemed to be wandering on its merry way very nicely without me, thank me very much.

I had my bed in the corner of Sickbay, tucked out of the way. The highlight of my day was an occasional shuffle to the bathroom, and I showered when I remembered to. Now and again Phlox came by and ran some tests or other or asked me questions I couldn't be arsed to answer, even if I'd understood what he was saying, which I didn't, though every now and then if I watched very carefully I could lip-read a word or two.

It didn't matter.

Nothing mattered at all. Even when people came in and said something about some Weapon or other, and about the captain. Like they thought I knew what they were talking about, or cared.

Trip came a few times. He wanted to talk about Hoshi. I knew he was telling me she was dead and I knew I was to blame. I hadn't protected her. She was my responsibility and I hadn't protected her.

The glass protected me from him. I could watch his lips move and not hear a thing. And not feel a thing either, which was weird, but probably just as well, because he was definitely upset about something.

I was definitely dozing. Nobody had visited and I didn't give a toss.

I heard the all-too-familiar-by-now clinking of the privacy curtain loops.

It was probably just Phlox. He hadn't been by that day, as far as I remembered, though there again I might have forgotten and I didn't give a shit if I had.

It was the perfume that did it.

I remembered it from somewhere, and it hurt, it hurt so much that suddenly I was utterly terrified; _floating_ had become _drowning._ I didn't know how or why, just that I had to get away, run, burrow, anything, just as long as I got away from it and everything it represented.

I tried to get off the bed but I got my legs tangled up in the blanket. I fell onto the floor and a tray from the nightstand beside me fell on top of me with a clatter, showering me with medical paraphernalia. The plastic tube attached to the cannula still in my one of my hands – I couldn't be arsed to eat, though now and again I amused myself by picking at the strapping that held it there – tightened with a jerk, and the drip stand fell on me as well. Yelping, I dived for the only shelter there was. Under the bed. Right at the top, with my back against the wall so _they_ couldn't creep up behind me, and my arms and legs crunched in to protect my belly because that was where the pain had been, the pain the pain the pain the pain the pain the pain the pain the…..

 _They_ hadn't gone away. Of course _they_ hadn't. Though there was a nice long artistic pause, as though _they_ were deciding whether to come at me from one side or the other or from both sides at once, which not only had a nice dramatic flair but would give me two threats to deal with at once and I couldn't take out both of the bastards, not in this condition.

 _They_ were talking. I ground my fists over my ears so I wouldn't hear _them._ But I couldn't take my flesh from the floor, and I felt rather than heard the footsteps go away.

Bastards. As if I was going to fall for that! There was still one of _them_ here. I knew. I couldn't hear _it_ but I knew.

My guts congealed in horror. _It_ was kneeling down, _it_ was coming in after me!

I could fight, but there was no use. Whatever I did, _it_ would get me. However I struggled, _it_ would be there, coiling around me, suffocating me, drowning me….!

 _… Drowning…._

My ribs were heaving so hard trying to get oxygen that I thought every gasp must be lifting the bed above me. My fingers tingled. My head started to feel light, so that I tried harder and harder to breathe, because I wasn't getting air, there wasn't enough air, I was drowning drowning drowning drowning drowning drowning drowningdrowningdrowningdrowningdrowningdrowning…..

And then I realized that was because every breath I was sucking in was saturated with _the perfume,THAT_ perfume, _HER_ perfume.

Bastards, bastards, bastards, fucking bloody bastards with their hands on her, fucking bastards leave her alone you fucking bastards and I couldn't do fuck all about it but lie there listening to her screaming and watch the fucking bastards hurt her and so much for being a fucking protector some fucking protector you are you useless fucking wanker the pain the pain the pain the pain the pain the pain the pain the pain the pain the pain the pain the pain the pain

I couldn't look and couldn't look away but I was so lightheaded by now I couldn't see straight. I was trapped in some dark place, drowning, fighting for air, in a state of absolute mind-blown panic. _It_ was coming closer and I was too shit-scared even to fight. _It_ was going to put _its_ hands on me, _it_ was going to claw my body, tearing the shell off it, and then there would be the pain, the pain the pain the pain–

 _It_ was right on top of me. I was trapped in there with _it_ and the fear and the pain, which seemed to have acquired identities of their own and leaned over me, laughing with their awful grating voices as I writhed and shrieked, _leave her alone you fucking bastards_ but they hadn't left her alone and I'd failed, failed, _failed,_ just like Father always said fucking little runt, and she was dead, _they_ were dead, whosever it was I'd have loved it but I was a fucking failure and she was dead dead dead dead dead dead–

–

….

In the sudden shuddering silence I sucked in one breath that – for all it broke in the middle – actually gave me air.

Air that was full of more than _her_ perfume; it was full of _her_ smell, _her_ beautiful clean just-washed body smell, that unique, personal, intimate scent that's one of the most entrancing and exciting facets of sex.

–

…

Fingers; no, just one finger, brushing my sweat-slicked cheekbone almost as lightly as the lips had brushed mine.

Her voice.

 _Dead_ , they snarled, bending over me, reaching up to pull me down, back into the dark. _Dead, she's dead, they're both dead. Fucking failure, you know they're dead._

"Malcolm."

There was an apple tree back at the cottage. If you lay under it in the spring, just as the blossom was ending, the petals would fall on your face. So infinitely light you could hardly feel each one, a tiny gift from the tree high above against the blue.

I lay on the grass, arms and legs splayed to feel the massive strength of the earth beneath me, and the petals kissed me.


	75. Chapter 75: Phlox

"…and apart from the details of the physiological trauma, which I have detailed in his records, that is all I can tell you, gentlemen."

Doctor Fitzgerald, the head of the Starfleet PTSD research team, rose and automatically held out his hand. To save any possible awkwardness I took it, though I believe that he remembered at the last possible moment that Denobulans dislike casual physical contact, and the handshake was mercifully brief.

"You've been more than helpful, Doctor," he said. "I assure you, he'll receive all the help and care we can give him."

I glanced thoughtfully through the window. In the garden outside, the sun had come out. It was May. The cloudy morning had held the temperatures down somewhat, and even threatened rain at one point, but still one obstinate patient was sitting in a chair beneath a tree, his gaze towards the distant gate. Bundled – that much I had been able to insist on – in a blanket, his only concession to his still somewhat fragile physical state, he was externally far less imposing a figure than the Lieutenant in uniform on _Enterprise_ , but nevertheless I had been subtly reassured when we last spoke that the healing process was under way. Certainly far more so than I had dared to hope in those black days on the way back to Earth, when I recorded in my medical logs that the last casualty of the mission was Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, who must be declared mentally incapacitated – a state that I very much feared might be permanent.

Humans are so endlessly fascinating. I had not believed that anything was capable of reaching him, and for a considerable time I had had my hands full with the care of Ensign Sato, who had suffered such trauma that I feared she would definitely lose her baby.

But she and the lieutenant are remarkable people. She held on to her pregnancy and then defied both me as her CMO and T'Pol as Acting Captain to approach a man who by that time was in such a state of mental collapse that Major Hayes had an armed guard stationed permanently in Sickbay to safeguard me. (The good Major would have been happier if I had immobilized Lieutenant Reed for both my safety and that of my unhappy patient, but as I reminded him on more than one occasion, in Sickbay _I_ am the expert. I believed that putting Mister Reed in restraints would be, as I believe the Human expression has it, 'the final hay'.)

It would have been invaluable for my latest report to have been able to study how they interacted. Unfortunately this took place on the floor beneath the lieutenant's bio-bed, and Captain T'Pol and I could do little more than wait anxiously beyond the privacy curtain and listen. However, I could report in my journal that night that there had been a definite improvement in the patient's condition. This was substantially due, I have no doubt, to the fact that he was curled up asleep with Ensign Sato in his arms, one hand resting on her still pregnancy-swollen abdomen.

After whatever had happened to him, it was not to be expected that healing would be rapid. Apart from the internal abdominal injuries he had sustained, he had multiple contusions consistent with recent blunt trauma and a considerable number of slightly older injuries over the rest of his body. These included several serious lacerations that had been stitched with – of all things – animal hair (I analyzed this later, and came to the conclusion that it was from some kind of equine quadruped). Most of these wounds were showing signs of infection, and as a result he was running an extremely high fever when he was brought on board. Several areas of burns he had also sustained were unsightly, but relatively non-life-threatening.

All of these, however, I could deal with aboard _Enterprise_. Although his survival prospects when he was first brought in seemed poor, especially when I had time to assess the full extent of his injuries, I had previous experience of the lieutenant's resilience; after a period of total bed-rest to allow his body to rest, he slowly began to recover, though his mind was far slower to even begin to heal. But given his overall condition, it was an inescapable conclusion that more than anything else he needed a period of rest back on Earth, and the fact that he did not immediately argue about it was the most convincing factor of all.

And the Starfleet Medical PTSD team were more than happy to accommodate him, which was why I was here now, in this pleasant convalescent home. After extensive repairs and refitting, _Enterprise_ was about to re-embark on her voyage of discovery, and it seemed somehow most appropriate that only a few days earlier, Lieutenant Reed should have been moved from his initial high-supervision hospital into this far more relaxed environment. If he continued to improve, I was confident that soon he would be released to recuperate in whatever situation he would find suitably congenial. To judge by our discussion earlier on, he was already rediscovering his capacity for insisting he was 'fine'; to be sure, it would undoubtedly have been more tactful if someone had not informed him the ship would be leaving shortly, giving him no opportunity to inspect the repairs in person and satisfy himself that everything was in perfect working order. However, Commander Tucker had sent a number of PADDs detailing all the weapons upgrades, and I had informed the lieutenant that if he was absolutely co-operative with the staff here he might be allowed to see one of them at the end of every week.

Really, it was _most_ impressive that he simply glared at me rather than telling me what he thought of my underhand tactics. His self-control was returning in leaps and bounds, as another Human saying has it.

On a previous occasion, under the seal of patient confidentiality, he had spoken quietly to me about a series of events that he said he had lived through during the period of his 'absence' from us. I knew, of course, that not only the captain but Starfleet were eager for an explanation of this, but his mental condition at that time was so fragile that I forbade his being questioned on it until he'd had time to process all that had happened to him. I took it as a gesture of deep trust in me on his part that he had voluntarily confided to me even the bare bones of his tale, and was determined not to betray that trust.

It was, of course, an extraordinary story. But for the evidence of those hair stitches whose DNA did not match anything on any available database, I admit that I would have been tempted to dismiss it as some form of highly detailed hallucination. The 'Tribe Mark' on his shoulder (which he was adamant I should not remove), although interesting, was inconclusive as evidence, since it could possibly have been self-inflicted during a delusional episode.

As a doctor I knew that it was entirely possible that such a delusion could have arisen in his mind as a product of months spent surviving alone in a hostile environment – whether the one in which he had been abandoned, or at least for part of the time as a prisoner of the Xindi. According to what we had been able to discover, however, he had been found by the Reptilians only hours after the Weapon was launched; if that was true, he had survived for all these months alone, without food or water, and even for such a highly-trained and resourceful individual as Lieutenant Reed, it was hard to imagine how he could possibly have done so _without_ some form of alternative sustenance. Furthermore, even if the existence of that mysterious hair could be explained satisfactorily, it was quite impossible for me as a physician to explain how he could have carried out the required surgery on himself, given the state he must have been in when the wounds were first inflicted.

But whatever this experience might have consisted of, from the emotion he betrayed during our conversation I could see that he had been deeply affected by it. It would take time for him to come to terms with it, and to allow him to be pressed too early for a detailed explanation – and possibly faced with disbelief, if not outright derision – could be deeply prejudicial to the recovery process. Even in the face of considerable pressure from the captain and his superiors, I remained firm on that point. It was for the lieutenant himself to make the decision that he was ready to speak about it.

Even now, looking out at him sitting there alone, I wondered if he had even begun his recovery in that respect. I wondered, too, what course his life would take when he was finally passed fit for duty by Starfleet's medical and psychiatric evaluation boards. So much had happened, and so much still hung in the balance. Many of his decisions, I suspected, depended on the plans and actions of others. One other in particular.

Just as I was about to turn away, however, I saw him stiffen. The gates had opened, and a bright red flitter was skimming up the driveway.

I could only doubt that the gardeners here would approve of the way the flitter suddenly changed course and headed straight for him, apparently heedless of the welfare of the formal flowerbeds with their splendid displays of roses and those striking flowers that I believe are called 'Birds of Paradise'. And as it came to a halt just a little distance from him, the lieutenant stood up, shedding his blanket, which was a thing I could _not_ approve of, because the May morning wind off the bay still had a slight edge on it, and it was tossing the branches over his head.

Fortunately Ensign Sato appeared to have a proper regard for suitable protection against the cold. At least as regards the bundle she held in her arms: Charles Matthew Sato-Reed, born three days earlier, and a perfectly healthy little boy with a very good pair of lungs on him.

Showing an uncommon degree of tact, Commander Tucker drove the flitter away. And I realized somewhat belatedly that it was time that I, too, turned my eyes away.

And left Malcolm and Hoshi alone.

 **THE END… almost**


	76. Chapter 76: Jessa

Winter came late to the Plains that year.

The People said it was the mercy of the Gods, that They held back the cold so long; and even when it came, it was not as fierce as it sometimes is. The long trek southward at Syach's tail was not the misery it can be when the snows come early, but nevertheless we were all thankful when at last he led us into a soft valley just south of the Chain Lakes and made a halt, and we knew we could put up the tents for the winter.

At the end of a long day's work, in which I had taken as much part as I was allowed, I sat once more in my own tent and looked into the fire. Next day and the next there would be more work, but the third day should see not only the _acha-we_ but the _kiwa-we_ set up and secured until the day when the greening grasses and the song of the spring called us north again.

I should have been glad.

I felt nothing.

The hunting had been good. They had brought me meat, the best and tenderest cuts, as is always given to a woman with child. Even a woman with brown eyes, it seemed. Though I was under no illusion – the whole village was waiting to see what colour the child's eyes would be.

 _The child._

As the warmth of the flames spread through the tent, I parted my robe. My belly was now a perfect small dome, and as though the babe within it felt my touch it kicked. Ai! the life in it was fierce. Already I knew that much.

As _his_ had been…

Malcolm. Mother of Mares, I should have been able to save him.

It was not that I cared nothing for the child to come – that was the promise of the spring to a heart that was locked in winter. But, ai! The winter was so long, and dark, and the nights were cold and lonely in the furs that had enfolded the two of us; and my heart mourned in me night and day for the one who was lost to me.

As I did so often when there was no-one there to see, I groped for the gold lightning-bolt that now hung from a thong around my neck. It had been _his_. The wrist-band was kept safely in my kist, the inheritance his child should have, but the pin lived in my soul as the thing that had drawn me to him in the darkness, amidst the wounded and dying. I could no more have given it up than I could have given up the memory of his love.

His love...

If the scratching had not come at the tent-flap, I might have burst into wild crying. For sure it seemed that there was something waiting inside me, something that had waited all this time and finally needed to be set free; but instead I must needs pull on some semblance of dignity for whoever this was who called.

"Come," I said, and hoped my voice was not too strange. I had hardly spoken at all since the day _he_ had been taken from me; of what use were words when _he_ was no longer with me to hear them? I had not even wept. What use were tears? They would not bring _him_ back.

Also I hoped with all my heart that whoever it was, they would not linger, for I wanted only to be alone.

Atreh.

I should have risen in respect, for he was the chief now, but a swift gesture bade me stay where I was.

It seemed that he hesitated, seeing my robe parted, but as I made no move he came in and sat down opposite me.

"I have news," he said, his voice very low and quiet — almost though he were speaking to a nervous mare who might bolt or kick. "Sahbay has sent word from a trader who speaks of a great wall of stone being built in the Southlands. The trader says the voices of the birds say that it is being built to pen the Northern barbarians into their worthless lands forever."

It was wonderful news, for it meant that the last of the shadow had rolled away from us; the victory was complete that so many had given their lives to purchase. But how could I rejoice in it when _he_ was not here to rejoice in it with me?

Still, I knew that it meant much to Atreh, so I framed the best smile I could and said something that I hoped was appropriate, while inside I mourned and keened afresh that _he_ had not lived to know the extent of the triumph _he_ had bought us.

Having given me the news, I thought he would leave, but he did not. The quality of the silence between us had changed somehow; it was even a little uneasy, and that was strange, for we had never been uneasy with one another. Then, with a thoughtful look, he leaned forward and dipped his finger into the new ashes.

The breath caught in my throat.

One finger, so light the stretched skin could hardly feel it. A zigzag, the shape of Bracu's Spear, mirroring the bright gold gleaming on the thong about my neck and calling down His mighty protection on the child within. It was a father's blessing, one that Malcolm had not lived to give the child of his spirit - and that it _would_ be of his spirit, I had no doubt at all.

Across it, he drew the familiar sign: the ears of the Wolf, eternally alert to protect His own. How often I had traced the mark of it in _his_ skin, blessing each stroke of it with kisses when we were alone together...

But he was not done. Beneath the ears of the Wolf, he slowly and deliberately drew the elongated double curve of the Eagle's wings.

The tears began at last, unstoppable, spilling down my face, splashing on to my breasts.

Had _he_ grieved thus, parted from his Hoshi?

I had loved him. Mother of Mares, I had loved him. I still did, and I always would. Nothing, no-one, not death itself, would end or even diminish the love I bore him. My step on to the Bridge would be the first step of my rush towards his arms.

But _he_ had showed me: there are more than one kinds of love. A heart is not so narrow there is room in it only for one.

Atreh held me quietly, gently. He let me weep. His hand on my hair was not _his_ hand, but it woke a distant, faithful echo, like the ghost of a long-departed touch on a silent harp.

I do not know whose hand it was that wrapped the furs around us. I only know that presently I slept, wrapped in the arms of a strong man who loved me.

And outside, Syach kept watch beneath the eternal stars.


End file.
